Hunger that Can't be Sated (After Tarsus Collection)
by infiniteworld8
Summary: After Tarsus IV, things are supposed to be back to normal. . But some promises can't be kept because Tarsus isn't only a thing of the past, it's a spectre in the present and those who lived the nightmare can't just forget and return to normal. Hell isn't something you can run away from, it clings to you with every footstep away. (Collection of One Shots)
1. Hunger that Can't be Sated

_This story started was the product of thinking about what it must have been like for Kirk and his mother after he got home from Tarsus . The first few weeks must have been extremely hard and here's some of what I think happened (This is a collection that will be added to in a series of one-shots)_

* * *

She didn't' know what to do with him. It had been three months since he had got off the U.S Yorktown and a few more months since he had left Tarsus. It had been over 2 years since she had shuttled her eleven—almost twelve year old on a flight and tried half-heartedly to convince him that she wasn't just trying to get rid of him.

She could tell he didn't believe her words when she had spoken that day so any years ago now. And she couldn't blame him, because with every fibre of her being she had just wanted him gone. She had wanted him away from her eyesight no longer around to torment her with his face or eyes which every day were beginning to look so much like George's. It had been a blessing in disguise when he had finally almost killed himself in yet another of his reckless and—she recognized attention-seeking endeavors and George's relatives had called her asking how things were. It had been a blessing when the woman and her husband had offered to take jimmy.

Maybe they could sense she was at her wits end, maybe they just wanted to see what was technically their cousin by some accounts and nephew by others—either way it didn't matter she could finally get rid of her son. So she had packed him away ignoring the defiance in his eyes or the comm. messages she had read days before that he was planning to ditch the shuttle when he got the chance. Sam had already left—he thought she didn't know where he was but with her connection it wasn't hard to keep a tab on her eldest son. If her second son wanted to leave who was she to stop him?

Kirks weren't made to be cooped up, they were made for freedom, doing or dying…just like George…and even the stars couldn't contain him.

She had ignored all the signs when it started. Sporadic comms at first forced by his aunt and uncle had changed into terse messages and then into silence. It was atmospheric disturbances she assured herself, Tarsus was almost impossible to reach by shuttle craft or comms, for months out of the year. She had forced down the worry. And then it had all shattered with one comm. from Pike, her worst fears were confirmed. They had found Jimmy. And her son and the entire colony had been at the mercy of a madman.

She hated herself for ignoring her suspicions that something was wrong, but she hated herself more for what she did next . Because even though her son was most likely dying in some cold sterile , sickbay she couldn't bring herself to go to him. She had deleted the message and the others that followed. And when she finally answered it was only after Jimmy had gotten better. It was easy enough to feign lack of knowledge and claim a deep space mission hadn't allowed her an opportunity to get any comms or recent news. She had seen Pike believed he. After all what mother would let her own son, lay dying and not come? He didn't consider for a moment that she hadn't simply decided not to come. He hadn't considered that maybe she had already experienced too much loss.

When she finally met her son, she couldn't believe he was Jimmy. He was taller than she remembered, so much thinner. His face was pale, his cheeks sunken, his hair limp. He looked like he was hanging onto living by a thread.

What struck her most though was the eyes. They didn't have a spark of life left. Pike had given him a small push forward and he had come and reluctantly stood in front of her…like he was wary and waiting. Tears were streaking down her cheeks at her selfishness as she went to hug him— something she hardly—had ever done he flinched.

Her arms fell back to her sides, like she had been slapped. She recognized the wary look in his eyes now; it wasn't unfamiliarity with the situation. It was the skittish movement of a feral animal that was trapped and ready to fight survival the only thing he knew how.

Winona watched as Pike—Chris, as Jimmy seemed to know him, crouched down and talked to him and only after their conversation did Kirk move forward again. Winona's face burned with embarrassment that anybody could have took for sadness and what was happening. How was it that a man she barely knew made Jimmy more comfortable than his own mother?

She was well aware that the hug she finally gave him was uncomfortable for them both. Her because she was unaccustomed to it. Him because his body was trembling against hers and he didn't seem to want to touch her, pulling as far away from her as possible in her embrace like he expected the show of affection to be the precursor to something more sinister.

She had accepted the counseling recommendations from Pike, and the nutrition plan and follow-ups from the doctors and then she had bundled Jimmy home. Like an unwanted package she had just received…again.

The next days had been tense and unpleasant for them all. Frank was uncaring, She didn't want to act like things were different and Jimmy…well he just wasn't Jimmy anymore.

Now, Frank had left on a trip . And Jim as her son now liked to be called and she had settled into an uneasy routine. It was marked by minute long one-sided conversations by Winona, dinners that nobody had the appetite to eat and nightmares in which he woke up screaming that she couldn't comfort him after.

She left the house that day because she needed to get out. Somewhere, anywhere…Jim hadn't seemed to care. He was sprawled on the couch staring blankly at a Holovid. His lanky legs dangling over the edge of the couch arm, his body swamped in clothes that hung off him. He had barely turned his head as she had spoken to him. His eyes had tracked her briefly like he was watching her to see what else she planned and when she hadn't come any closer he had turned back, settling into the sofa like a person for whom the effort of merely breathing was taxing.

And Winona had left. Shutting the door behind her and standing on the steps she let herself cry, because she knew there was nothing she could ever do that would fix what had happened.

XXX XXX

Kirk stared at the insipid commercial and even more insipid drama on and then flicked idly through the channels. He couldn't bring himself to be interested in any of it anymore. He let his mind fade back and briefly wondered what Kevin was doing. He had tried to contact the others but Starfleet had refused to give up their locations and Kevin's grandparents had refused to let him see the boy when he had called. They said they wanted him to just forget it all. They didn't understand Tarsus wasn't something you could forget. Because you couldn't forget hell, It stayed with you forever.

Jim shifted uncomfortably on the couch. His body was all sharp angles, but he couldn't bring himself to eat. It was easier on the ship, when they had finally stopped making him sit down at meals and just let him grab what he wanted when he wanted it. It felt more normal then, like he was used to. A protein bar one hour— a few hours later some fruit. That was better than the full course meals that the nutritionist had insisted on at first because even if it was a small portion of food, the little heap was only a reminder of all the times they had sat there and fantasized about what they would like to eat, only to wake up and find that another of their number has succumbed to starvation.

Eating even that few spoonfuls had felt like a betrayal. And second even though the feeding port he had in his stomach had been removed as well as the central catheter he had inserted, his body just wasn't used to eating much anymore. Plus he seemed to have a lot more allergies than he had before. He had always had issues with some foods, but ever since Tarsus and probably the effects of the drugs Kodos had given him, he had allergies to about half the things he normally would have been able to eat. Just one more side-effect of his time spent in hell.

Now Kirk's stomach rumbled unpleasantly, it ached slightly too. He hadn't eaten anything since dinner last night in which his clueless as ever mother had set a plate of food in front of him and he had tried to eat it only to wind up puking in the bathroom after a few bites too many of the rich meal.

He laid there a little longer, letting the ache intensify and then reluctantly dragged his body up and went to the kitchen to find something to eat. His eyes landed on a banana, it was soft in spots and clearly on its last legs but he had eaten worse. The flesh was sweet and yet bland. He chewed the mush slowly, as he raised it to his mouth for another bite he faltered. His eyes burned, his throat felt tight.

He wondered briefly whether he was having an allergic reaction and then he felt something drip down his face and then another. They were tears salty and warm…and as he stared at the banana they grew.

He dropped the yellow fruit to the floor and just stood remembering a time months ago. It had been one of the few somewhat good days they had. Somehow, in a stasis pod of which the owners were either dead or long gone to Kodos compound, were clusters of bananas, most slightly over ripe. But it had been more than enough for all of them. And Jim hadn't had the heart to try to ration them out or save some for tomorrow. Because who knew when tomorrow would come.

Now almost all of those kids were long dead and he was left with a mouth full of half chewed banana and a mind full of memories. He spat out the now sickly sweet fruit and at the same time bit off the sob that was welling within him. The sharp ache intensified in his abdomen and suddenly he couldn't take it anymore. The pain was too much, it was too much of a reminder , the sharp gnawing in his abdomen only brought back more starved faces and terrified nights. And he wanted it to end.

He grabbed the nearest thing and this time it was a handful of dry cereal. It spilled from his hand as he raised it to his mouth. The flakes choked him. Tears were running down his face, half-hitching sobs shuddering through his frame, he was gagging as he choked the food down. Every mouthful was like a promise broken. Every mouthful reminded him of how he was alive and others, people he had swore would live, laid buried in the ground somewhere that there bones might never be found.

He couldn't stand the memories brought on by the hunger tearing through his frame and he couldn't stand the memories brought on with every mouthful. Each swallow was a battle against his body and ultimately his starving fourteen year old frame won out, choking the food down, bite by bite, swallow by swallow.

He opened the stasis cabinet and grabbed eggs shoving them raw into his mouth the shells crunching between his teeth yolk running down his chin. He grabbed a bottle of juice gulping it down , the liquid spilled down his chest, overflowed his mouth, the bottle fell from his grasp. But it wasn't enough. He was hungry, desperately in need of something anything to wash away the images flashing through his mind. He ripped open the pantry grabbing boxes off the shelve and ripping them open, he opened the stasis compartment and randomly grabbed items. Dried pasta, half-rotten lettuce, off-date milk, he ate it all. Stuffing it in gorging himself. After all this time he was hungry and…

It felt wrong.

He grabbed a handful of bread off the floor and nearly choked as he tried to swallow it.

He was crying and chewing and swallowing and the sharp ache in his stomach he had was now replaced with a dull pain as it protested at the items he was cramming down.

The door opened and Kirk didn't even look up from where he was doing his best to gorge himself to acknowledge the person staring at him in horror.

XXXX XXXX

Winona smoothed the tears off her cheeks and drove the air skimmer home. She hadn't gone anywhere, just drove around trying to forget the shell of a child she was coming back to. As she walked in the house, she glanced toward the couch and was surprised to find Jim gone; usually he wouldn't move for hours at a time. Puzzled and somewhat worried she walked further into the room. Her anxiety only grew as she heard a gag from the kitchen and the sound of something spilling across the floor. She made to to the kitchen doorway and stood perfectly still staring at her son. He was kneeling on the floor , sobbing she could tell by his shoulders shaking even though the only sound was him choking as he shoved food in. The bag she was carrying fell from her fingers, to lie on the floor. He flinched at the sound and turned his face towards her , his face and clothes were smeared with food.

Her voice was barely above a whisper and shaking. "Jimmy dear, what are you doing?"

"I'm hungry." The voice was blank, quivering in intensity. He bowed his head , hair falling into his face and his hands released the handfuls of food he was holding. He shuddered and then she heard it, a quiet keening sound like an animal dying, like a person being tortured. She kneeled down, her legs touching the sticky mess he kneeled in but he didn't move towards her. Instead he wrapped his arms around his legs rocking back and forth. His body shuddered again and this time , the food he had swallowed came up, spilling onto his shirt and trousers and finally after several heaves he settled back breathing heavily.

She reached out, trying to wipe his mouth and he flinched away again, pulling even tighter into himself. His eyes turned up to hers and he knew she saw the tears dripping down her own cheeks. As he whispered yet again, "I'm hungry."

She moved closer not trying to touch him, but just an arm's length away. Her own reply of "I know Jimmy" was so silent it wasn't heard.

But she heard him, repeating it over and over, in between sobs, gags and panting breath. "I'm hungry."

The sun set outside and they both remained sitting on the floor for hours after. Winona cried as she watched the once vibrant child, now a wreck who she couldn't begin to know how to fix. He was hungry.

She saw that now. He always had been. She had once had the power to fill that void.

Now it was a hunger that could never be filled, because she couldn't replace what had been stolen from him months ago. She couldn't nourish him with the life.

* * *

_In my headcanon Winona was not a very attentive mother to Kirk , so when he comes back from Tarsus it's probably extremely difficult to connect with him. I see him as having issues with eating and feeling guilty about that and then of course the PTSD from the whole ordeal. Also he doesn't have anybody to talk to about what happens and so he's trying to sort things out himself._

_I liked to say that this story is dedicated to those who across the world suffer hunger and starvation and to those with eating disorders related to trauma. Thanks for reading_


	2. A Lesson in History

_Title: A Lesson In History_

_Summary: Kirk starts school for the first time after Tarsus, but a history lesson has as much similarity to the past as it does to the present._

* * *

It's his first week back at school. The stares follow him; the whispers are just loud enough that he can't help not hear them. The expressions coated with pity are present on every face, nobody really knows what happened. Nobody knows where he spent the last two years and he doesn't bother to tell them. _There are no words to ever describe what Tarsus was, a nightmare can only be sketched but the picture stays in the mind of the dreamer._

Instead he does what he's supposed to do, speak to the teachers when they ask questions, follow the instructions to his classes, try to participate in life. But he's nothing more than an observer, to participate would require him to remember how life was before and that would require slogging through all the memories he's trying his best to lock away.

The lasts therapist his mother drags him to every week, wants him to remember, she wants him to understand and accept. He knows she won't last long, or make any more headway than the others…because she doesn't understand. From her clean, well manicured nails, pristine clothes and graduate school crafted thoughts of life, she's lost. She'll never understand what's wrong or how to fix it…because she never spent a stint in hell.

He can't remember and yet he can't stop. Every day he fights to lock that time away, far back where he'll never think of it… far back so that he can pretend it never happened. He doesn't want to talk about the planet that haunts his nightmares or the things he seen and done he just wants to forget.

He sits in the cafeteria and stares at the children around him. They laugh, they play, and they live.

And he just watches. Half- eaten lunch trays tossed aside, voices yelling so loud they could be heard halfway across a courtyard, plump full bodies and childish pranks…_it's life, and it's so wrong._

He feels like he's drowning, submerged in a sea of normalcy. A boy settles next to him. The teen tries to start a conversation; maybe he takes pity of him. Maybe it's one of the teachers' attempts to help him adapt. Either way, he doesn't care.

"Hi, you're Jim right?"

Kirk stares at him….the boy looks slightly unnerved, but to his credit tries again. "So, uh me and a few others we're going to watch a holo after school you…"

The teen trails off as Kirk doesn't speak, doesn't even look at him anymore. Kirk stares at the food lying untouched on his own plate and picks at the bread of his untouched sandwich then whispers in a voice so tired it's barely audible. "That's not important."

"What?" The other boy leans closer and Kirk turns to look at him. He sees a startled look across his face, and knows it's his eyes. Their dead, he's heard his mother mention that to the therapist after he leaves the room and waits for them to finish discussing him. He's knows they reflect all the death he's seen, and… all the death he's brought. He knows that they look like death and there's nothing that can change that because he feels like he's dead.

"It's not important…" Kirk turns away not bothering to watch as he hears the other boy walk away after a moment. It's the truth, it wasn't important, nothing much is anymore. Holos, eating, sleep none of its important-a corpse doesn't need to do any of those things. He wishes his mother and the rest of them would see that.

He wishes they would just let him die. _He accomplished the only thing left to do, eight others got off that planet of hell because of him and now he just wants to let go and curl up, cold and unfeeling with the others who are lying in the ground because of him—because he wasn't fast enough—or strong enough—because somehow someway he should have saved them too and—he couldn't._ He wishes he could just die…then he wouldn't hurt so much.

The bell for next class rings and as the other kids shove last bites into their mouths and dump trays into the recycler he carefully packs his untouched lunch away. He can't bring himself to eat it most days, but he can't bring himself to waste it either.

A part of him knows he's safe on Earth and another part knows that he's never safe, because Tarsus was safe too and then it was all blood and screaming and the stench of death so that he'll never be able to get rid of the odour from his memory.

He's walking to class, through a ceaseless mass of people doing his best to ignore the students around him. Doing his best to remind himself that the screams are just kids playing and not people crying out as they lay dying. He does his best to remember that there's no need to lash out at the people bumping into him because it's not a guard moving closer, holding him, pinning him and making him wish he was dead. He does his best not to bolt as children run past him, because they're not trying to escape a firing squad they're just going to class. _It's Earth not Tarsus._ He repeats the words over and over in his head but it does nothing to still his hammering heart.

And for the most part he succeds, he catches himself as his feet unconsciously quicken. He doesn't whip his head all the way around as somebody shrieks mere feet behind him. He pulls his hand back just in time to stop himself from breaking a girls arm as she briefly touches his.

He makes it to class and settles down in his seat. He sits as close to the door as he can get but far enough away that he still has another escape, part of him knows he doesn't need to do that but he still does. _ Kodos came and cleared the classroom the day it all started; he saw lines of children led unwittingly to their deaths._

Silence settles as the teacher walks in. The Holoboard activates and a lesson plan flashes on screen.

Open App 6.15 and read screen one. His fingers skim across the Padd resting on his desk, but he doesn't read. He can't calm himself enough to read the words. He knows this chapter; he remembers skimming over it a few nights ago when yet again he woke up from a nightmare. The words hadn't made the screams still rolling through his head or the nausea in his gut better that night.

Minutes pass and then the teachers speaking. "Earth and the galaxy's history have been marred by many such events as you just read. "

Kirk looks up, watching the teacher as she strides back and forth talking, behind her pictures flash past on the screen, dates and locations underneath.

_Two towers toppling- September 11__th __–__21__st__century_

_Two gigantic mushroom clouds engulfing cities, Japan 20__th__century_

_Dark skinned people packed on ships, so tight their bodies are crammed together- Slave trade, Former United States 16__th__century_

_People running as vessels fly overhead strafing crowds. Augments marching throughout cities, rounding up people for selection. 21__st__century _

He stares at the pictures, and sees two images for every one. There are people running in terror during the Second World War as fire rains down from the sky, but there's people running as ships flew overhead, bolts of lasers flicking out, and bodies disappearing in halos of light.

There's emaciated bodies packed on top of each other and being shoved into crematoriums by smiling guards with SS on their uniforms and theirs troops wearing Kodos' uniform piling corpses- aliens and humans- so they can burn them.

The teacher continues speaking. "But we have made so much progress, the entire galaxy has, and what has happened in the past doesn't happen anymore, we have grown past our prejudices and we have learned from history."

A sour taste coats his mouth and before he knows it he speaks. Everybody in class turns to look at him. "That's not true." He repeats the words again and his teacher frowns. "James," he flinches as she uses his name, it reminds him of thick lips whispering it heavily into his ears as rough hands pet his body.

She doesn't notice his reaction or maybe she doesn't care, he can't tell anymore. "If you have something to say, why don't you wait until you're called on?"

He doesn't speak again, and she frowns even more, an odd look crossing her face as she stares at him. He knows she as well as the other teachers knows something happened to him, but he also knows none of them know exactly what. They know he was away for a few years and came back very changed, but they don't know why.

The teacher chooses to ignore his outburst and continues the class. A quiz is given which he knows he failed and can't bring himself to care. Then they're each called up , one by one to read sections of the chapter—It's about the holocaust, he doesn't need to read it, he doesn't need a reminder of history—he's already lived it…._The past is his present._

James ignores the bored voices reading out passages; he lets his mind wander instead of listening to the words. It's easier to just drift away. Then it's his turn. "James"

"James"

It takes the teacher three times before he turns his head and looks at her. She stares at him a tad irritated and somewhat worried. Her mouth opens to say something else but he shuffles from his seat to the front of class. She clears her throat and says quietly. "Section 6.11.3 please." He flicks to the right screen and begins to read, he doesn't want to. But he knows if he doesn't do his mother will hear about it and then he'll be dragged to another therapist or counsellors who will then try to make him talk and force him to sit for hours while they try to "connect".

"During World War II, several million people were murdered, by the Nazi Regime. Auschwitz was one of the concentration camps which had the highest body count of record to its name. "He pauses but manages to continue. "One of the most common method in which they committed this atrocity is through the use of gas chambers, people were herded into the room and…"

_Crouching on the roof of an abandoned building, watching as the guards stripped the prisoners of their possession, clothes anything they could. Then they were marched one by one into the building. He knew it had once been a recycler and he knew that now it would serve a similar purpose, people weren't that much different from Garbage in Kodos eyes._

He blinks, and glances around, he's only stopped talking for a few seconds but everybody is staring at him. He swallows and continues, trying to rush through the pages so he won't have time to comprehend what he's speaking. It doesn't work.

"Thousands of people died indirectly from the Nazi's cruelty. Many were ravaged by disease, others—others st-st-starved to death…"

_The entire house was empty except for the front room. Lying there were three bodies, a mother and two kids, the skin was pulled tight against their skulls, clothes hung off their frames, and even from feet away it was obvious what had killed them. The slow, death of starvation._

"Continue James."

He looked up, his throat felt tight. The words were blurring on his Padd. "No."

"James, this is history class you—"

He didn't wait for her to speak; his entire frame was trembling now. It's history, so far in the past. It's supposed to never happen again, but it already has and it's too much. He can't read about something when every word is a reminder of how he's lived it. "I'm not reading anymore of this sh—" He tries to make the words firm, but his voice is trembling so the sentence is mumbled and his eyes are burning.

The Padd drops from limp fingers, pieces of plastic fly across the room and the screen shatters. He's shaking so much it feels like a single breath will knock him over.

The teacher is moving closer now, her lips move, but he can't hear the words. She reaches towards him, looking worried. He doesn't see the expression, just the hand moving towards him trying to make connect. He stumbles back, catching the side of a desk in his back. Words come out, whispered, like a broken plea "I'm not reading anymore." _I'm not remembering anymore. _ The last words were left unsaid, but he means them with every fibre of his being.

The teacher frowns even more, he manages to stumble farther back, away from the other students staring at him and the teacher speaking words he can't understand.

He reaches the back of the room. His back is pressed tightly to the wall, legs locked to hold himself up, skin pale as ghost and she's still coming closer .It triggers another memory. She reaches out grabbing his arm and he desperately rips himself free. He pulls even tighter into himself and he can't help the strangled whimper that breaks free from his lips or the trickle of liquid that starts down his legs. He's lost in nightmare for a moment, and he's back on Tarsus. _Hands holding him tightly, a body pinning him. The thick smell of sweat, blood trickling down his face and rough skin rubbing against his own rhythmically as a silent scream lodges in his throat. He wanted to run but couldn't._

It's not like that now, he can move. He can run. He does.

He breaks away as she tries to touch him again and he shoves her back, then he's racing out the room. Classes are letting out; he ignores the students littering the corridor and runs until he finds an empty classroom. Somebody finds him almost an hour later cowering in an empty classroom. Too far gone to even cry out when she touches him, instead he pulls tightly into himself burying his head in his knees, his arms wrapped around his shoulders like he's trying to hold himself together. School's let out by the time he moves and this time his mother touches him. Numbly he stands up flinching as the school nurse tries to pull him up him. He lets somebody guide him to the seat. He's vaguely aware of the principal (whose arrival he didn't even notice), the school nurse, his teacher and his mother all discussing him. They think he can't hear them but he does.

"He's not ready for this amount of stimuli yet." The school's nurse clipped assessment starts it off.

Then it's the principal, concerned and questioning. "What exactly happened?"

"I'm sorry principal Carmichael it's very traumatic I can't really discuss it" His mothers' tones are equal parts sad and in control…only he hears the desperation in her voice.

'"He freaked out in class, the incident was very disturbing. –"

"Do we know what caused this?"

He zones out as his teacher answers they're all talking about him, but nobody's talking to him. He could take the kids, the noise, the questions and the stares but he can't take the memories.

The brief conversation washes over him and then his mother comes. She stares at him awkwardly and speaks. He doesn't get all the words, his mind is too distracted. But he knows what she wants, numbly moving by rote he follows her out the school, legs still trembling slightly, pants still damp, and flinches that he can't help when the principal abruptly reaches out to pat his back.

It's late at night. He's curled up in bed, not asleep he avoids that as long as possible, and it keeps the nightmares away for just a little longer. He's still breathing fast and his stomach aches from a dinner that wouldn't stay down. The light is off and he's staring out the window. He feels a weight settle on the edge of his bed and automatically bolts upright, heart hammering in his chest and his own remembered screams in his ears. But this time it's not a hairy hand caressing is face, or a rough voice whispering lewd phrases. It's quiet and soft and something he misses even though he never really had it before. He doesn't know how to react. His body stills and he stiffens as hands grasp his shoulder pulling him into a hug.

The words are almost silent and he feels them whispered against his head. 'What went wrong today Jim?"

He doesn't speak, instead he trembles and this time he starts crying. His mother lets him lie back down and immediately he curls up again. Her face is pinched, her eyes worried but he doesn't answer.

He can't figure out the words to explain how he's trapped in a nightmare.

And…

He's sure she wouldn't understand anyway.

* * *

_Basically the inspiration for this piece was that while things change, some things stay the same. Hence in a lot of ways the past is doomed to be repeated and we are stuck in a never-ending cycle. Thanks for reading._


	3. It's Just a Game

**It's Just a Game **

* * *

The day was nearing to a close, he had managed to get through classes and lunch mostly without difficulty. During assembly , standing in the auditorium with row after row of children and a voice booming over the PA system had brought a cold sweat to his skin and tremors to his hands but he resisted the urge to run. He had managed to answer the questions in class and the few students that spoke to him he answered with more than just a blank stare.

The next to last class of the day was physical education. The teacher was an older man with a paunch and balding hair and an apparent love of old earth sports. Today he was walking up and down the rows of students; spit flying as he explained the old-North American sport of football. The game had been replaced in many instances by more advanced variations or games borrowed from other planets, but in Riverside, Iowa agriculture still reigned supreme and people were at least a few decades behind if not more on a lot of fronts. Football wasn't to unfamiliar to the towns kids as a way to pass the sometimes monotonous days.

Kirk lingered in the back of the crowd, not paying attention to the coach's words or even showing any interest. He didn't want to be there, he would have crept away if he could. But that never worked out well, people couldn't understand he wanted to be alone. Either a teacher, some other student, somebody always came and then the questions started.

_Was he okay? Why was he staying by himself? Didn't he want to be with the others?_

But they weren't like him…none of them were. And he saw they recognized it too. He sat alone at lunch , unless some teacher had taken it upon themselves to appoint a kid to try to "interact" with him for the day. Even the adults themselves didn't realize it but they avoided him to. The quick, fake smiles and short conversations were nothing more than an attempt to make a hasty escape while still satisfying their consciences.

_Great, we talked to the crazy kid now let's get away before it brushes off on us._

That thought was on all their minds. He didn't care. Right now, he was standing with everyone else and yet not, they had all moved carefully a step or two away, just far enough that he was in his own little space. Just far enough away that they could pretend he wasn't really there at all.

"Split into two teams" Around him people begin forming up. Friends jostling to stay together, kids sizing each other up. As always the smallest, and scrawniest were the last picked, but even they were picked… until it was just him. Two groups of people on either side and Kirk standing in the middle. Nobdoy wanted him on their team, nobody wanted to be around him.

One group was missing a member and Kirk found himself being ordered by the coach to that side.

He felt the seething resentment of the other kids and heard the whispers. "Great we've got him."

"Just ignore him and maybe he'll go away."

He didn't care. It was just a few minutes and then school would be over. He could handle this class, it was the best out of all his classes. Running, climbing, swimming, he could push himself until he was dripping with sweat and panting with his vision swimming dizzily, but it kept the memories at bay.

He could do the same today…

It was touch football and the coach started handing out positions There was a collective groan as the man mentioned Kirk's name for offense. Kirk didn't care.. he knew the position, and even though he wasn't interested in playing really , he moved to stand where he was told. He was fine, he could do this. It was what he kept telling himself, ignoring the memory tugging at the corner of his mind.

He kept thinking that, until the ball was set in the middle of the field. The old leather football broke through the allusions he had. In that instant his awareness split. Reality faded away drenched in the faded pieces of a memory. Past and present intermixed.

_It was a dusty, almost lifeless plant beneath his feet_. But there was also a grassy field with crisp blades being trampled underfoot_. Skinny kids around him, watching his moves with large eyes_. But he was also standing in the middle of a crowd, with sweaty teens surrounding him.

The whistle blew. People surged forward, yells were in the air. Grunts, pants, screams, swearing and a surging wave of people crashing around him. Kirk froze, unmoving as people swerved around him.

He didn't see the boy coming towards him; he was watching the scenes in his own mind. He was watching kids laughing and tumbling around each other for the ball, with scarecrow thin body.

He didn't see the boy running towards. Maybe it was an accident, maybe he just wanted to tackle somebody either way the teen crashed into him.

Kirk blinked, as the scene changed. _The stained glow of an afternoon sun faded away. A football lay forgotten on the ground. Kids laughing around him, collapsed in tired heaps on alien ground and disappeared._ All that vanished as a body slammed against his own. Earth didn't take its place, instead another memory surged up. This one of a set of survivors, who lived by scavenging, the dead and the living…they weren't picky. The crowd of children was replaced by a sweaty ragged group of mostly humans. He had been out scavenging food and got separated from the others. Now the group circled him, stained blades in their hands and wild looks in their eyes.

He felt hot air on his neck and knew that soon teeth would be lodged in his flesh. He had seen them already run down a young girl and rip her throat out with teeth that were human, even if the people who had them weren't anymore.

He didn't waste time yelling. Instead he fought back as one of the group surged toward him. His teeth sank into the other teen's shoulder. He bit down, blood filled his mouth and his teeth sank through flesh. He wanted to chew farther. He wanted to rip and tear shreds of flesh until the hunger gnawing at him was gone.

He ignored the boy's yelling and bit down again taking a piece of flesh with him when he pulled away. The slightly sweet skin was tangy with sweat. _That's how you become like them. _Some voice reminded him, halting the desire to swallow. Instead he spat clearing his mouth, but he was still so hungry. _But he was human, not a cannibal…not yet, not ever. _Kirk fought the hunger aching in his gut. It wasn't real anyway, it was just a memory, but memories and reality had blurred. They were one and the same.

The other boy was yelling even louder. Kirk could half hear people yelling at him, but he was too far gone. Earth wasn't there. He was back; on tarsus…he had never left.

He lashed out feeling the other boy's nose break with a sickening crunch. He hit him again and again, hands were pulling at him now…He could feel fingers clawing at him and knew that as soon as they drew him away those same people would butcher him like a piece of meat.

He resisted, fighting the grasping hands tugging at him.. The boy wasn't moving now, but Kirk needed to finish him off. He wanted to kill him. , he wanted to take some of them with him. Faces loomed over him, hands pulling him back inexorably even as he tried to strangle the teen lying on the ground.

He was terrified, even though he refused to show it. He knew he would probably be alive as they slowly killed him. He would feel their teeth biting his skin, maybe even as they sliced pieces off him. It wouldn't be a quick kill because now they were mad he had hurt one of their own.

He couldn't help it…as they pulled him towards them he screamed. He might have even begged as somebody pinned his arms down. Someone was sitting on his legs. A hand tried to clamp down over his mouth and he bit down, causing a cry of pain and feeling warm blood trickle down his throat. "Give it in his leg…Hold him down…Somebody hold him down!" Voices were yelling and somebody was inching his trousers down exposing his thighs, that motion brought even more fear. Sometimes they did sick things to the people they captured before they ate them.

Tears were running down his face, his mouth choked out the words. "Just kill me." More people were surrounding him and he could barely breathe as he hyperventilated. "Kill me, kill me, kill me!" He screamed the words over and over, hoping somebody would just end it.

He tried to kick them, but they're holding his legs. He tried to move his arms but they were pinned. He bucked against the people holding him; He felt a searing pain as he dislocated his shoulder in a attempt to free himself.

"What the hell is wrong with him!"

"He took a f—king chunk out of Brody!"

"He's psycho!"

"Get back all of you."

He heard words above him, he saw faces he vaguely recognized but it didn't make sense. All he knew was any moment now, he was about to be eaten alive.

Cool metal was pressed against his thigh and he felt a cold burning sensation. The screaming, the chaos all faded away, and then his eyes closed.

XXXX XXXX

He awoke with the sensation of breaking water. He opened his eyes and tried to sit up, but his arms were restrained as were his legs. He shoulder protested at the movement, and as he stared around at what was obviously a room in a medical facility his heart quickened.

Then a voice spoke softly from somewhere next to him. "Calm down jimmy, just calm down."

He twisted around as far as his restraints allowed and saw his mother seated in a chair next to the bed he was on. He relaxed slightly at first as he saw her, but only because if she was there then he wasn't on Tarsus…at least he was pretty sure she wouldn't have looked so lifelike if she was a hallucination.

"Wh-where am I?" The words were difficult to say , and his throat was so raw from screaming it burned.

"At the hospital."

"Wh-Why?"

His mother gave helped drink a few sips of water before she answered. "We were worried about you?"

"Why am I tied down?"

She didn't answer, instead she asked. "You remember what happened?"

He shook his head, and then pulled restlessly at the restraints holding him down. They were making him feel anxious he could feel panic creeping up with each second he remained tied down.

"Take these off."

His mother didn't make an attempt to remove them instead she stared at him for a minute, almost like she was afraid….either for him or of him…he wasn't sure.

"Please."

He tried to keep his voice calm but it was starting to shake. The thick restraints were too similar to many other times.

"Please." He repeated, his voice louder and less calm.

She didn't do so. Instead she started talking, almost at him, instead of to him. "During PE at school you—you had a little situation …a boy tackled you and" She pauses and her mouth thins , he knows the expression; it means she's holding something back. Trying to protect him, is the phrase he heard her use with the counselor last week. He had wanted to laugh when he had overheard the conversation. It was too late for her to protect him, it was far too late.

It doesn't matter if she lies, he can remember now…all of it. He remembers what he saw and now as he thinks about it he realizes what was and..what wasn't. It wasn't Tarsus but Earth, it wasn't a bloodthirsty human but a teenage boy.

"y-you fought him—" _Bit him, hurt him, tried to kill him. _He supplied the unsaid words in his mind.

Winona is still talking, her voice slightly hysterical. "You wouldn't stop and they were afraid you'd hurt yourself." _Hurt somebody else more._

"So they sedated you and brought you here, to make sure you were okay." _To keep you away from everyone else. _Kirk turns away for her eyes. And stares at the straps on his arms, he tugs at them again, he's so close to breaking again, he can feel it. The thick material against his wrists is triggering a whole new torrent of memories that he knows will make the football field look like child's play.

He's heard suggestions from counselors and some of the doctors. Psychiatric rehab, mental facilities, he knows others have been sent there after Tarsus. One of the kid's he's sure is there. She was barely functioning on the planet, they had to all but feed her, tell her to wash; she would sit for hours staring in the distance at nothing, lost in a world of her own. She was empath and eventually as young as she was with immature shields she had burned out like a computer overloaded. She'd never survive in the real-world.

But he'll never survive locked up like some crazed animal. He knows that , and that's the only reason that keeps him from screaming and thrashing against his restraints so hard he either gets free or breaks a good portion of the bones in his body.

Winona is oblivious to how hard he is trying to maintain control. She's still talking. "Somebody from Starfleet had to come and stop the boy's parents from pressing charges and the school from expelling you. You're suspended until the counselor decides to let you go back."

"Take these off, now! " The words burst out before he can stop it. Mercifully this time she listens. He's hyperventilating, so close to losing it all when she calls the doctor in. The man seems reluctant but he releases his wrists. Kirk wills himself to be still as the man touches him. His skin crawls at the gentle fingers running a scanner over him, but he makes it through.

It's last at night before he is released from the hospital. The doctor clearly wants to keep him longer, but some nameless Starfleet official, obviously worried what will be known if he remains in the hospital longer—persuades and then threatens for release.

The doctor backs down; he'll never know the truth. He may suspect, but he won't really believe he has seen one of the nine survivors of a massacre so big it destroyed a planet and thousands of people.

He'll just think it's some kid who is obviously not sane but his mom has connections and so instead of being admitted for treatment he'll stay at home.

The air skimmer ride home is silent. Kirk watches his mother drive, but doesn't speak. She breaks the silence. "What did you think was happening? "

"What?" He knows what she's asking about but he doesn't want to answer. He just wants to forget. He wants to do better, not for his mom, but for himself. He's not crazy, he can deal with this , but he wishes they would understand …talking doesn't help. The counselors just make him remember, they're part of the problem. They cause the memories to spill over from their sessions into his everyday life.

He doesn't need to analyze what happened he just needs to forget.

His mother repeats the question again, and he knows he'll have to say something. He knows she's so close to giving up on him, and that hurts more than anything. Because if she doesn't even see him as capable of being normal than how will anybody else. He'll always be the outcast, the loner, the creep…maybe he should just accept it.

"It was football…but I wasn't there. I thought he was trying to eat me and —"

He breaks off… he knows how crazy the words sound. He can feel her eyes boring into him without him even having to look. He hears the intake of breath that means so many things including…_why is he like this, how can I fix him, he's crazy._

"Jimmy—jim you-you understand he was trying to tackle you right?" She doesn't wait for him to answer and he isn't sure whether she is talking to avoid hearing his answer or to spin a more palatable story to avoid hearing what he actually saw. "It was a game and –"

He starts to refute her. "They were all around me , and I saw them—" He breaks off as he feels her tremble next to him. She doesn't want to hear, he knows that and so he gives her what she wants. A lie, easy quick and so much easier to hear. Its what she expects, even the therapists he talks with doesn't want to hear the truth. He knows because he tried to tell her, and the others before her and he knows the somber attentive looks on his face are hiding their true thoughts. He can practically feeling them judging him every time he tries to tell the truth. He's not crazy, he doesn't want to be looked at like he is. So he lets them hear what they want.

He falls silent and he lets her ask him questions about all the wrong things. The next day he does the same with the psychiatrists sitting across from him. Day after day he gets better at it. It's like a game he has to learn the rules too, and even though he's no closer to normalcy than he was a few weeks ago but he lets them think he is.

He lets them believe what they want to believe and keeps the truth to himself.


	4. And That Hurt's The Most

_Title: And That Hurt's The Most_

* * *

It's some cheap party, overflowing with teens, booze and drugs. Hypos and pills are scattered about like candy and cups overflowing with bitter liquor. The girl standing in front of him is drunk enough that any inhibition she had is gone but she's still aware of what she doing…and he's not drunk enough that he's not aware of what she's planning on doing.

He's trembling under her fingers and he wishes he could say it's because the way her nails are raking down the side of his neck , but he knows he's not feeling delicate finger tips drawing gentle lines down his skin. Instead he feels roughed calluses digging into his skin as fingers bruisingly hold him in place.

The alcove, their partly in, is half hidden from the rest of the party-goers. Teens walk back with their own dates, too high, or drunk to care what's going on and too focused on what they themselves are going to do next. Kirk knows they could move somewhere private, the girl now draping her hair across his neck half-heartedly suggested as much before letting the matter drop. But he doesn't care to be alone in some deserted room with just him and her; it'll feel too much like a cell…and that's the one thing he doesn't need to be reminded of.

He saw her when he first came in….her name's Cassie or something like that.. He can't quite remember, he's better now than he was but most days still pass in a blur as he feigns normalcy.

He's graduated up from being the creepy damaged kid who is just a mess, to the bad-boy with a dark past. It's an improvement, moving from scathing comments and sympathetic glances to flirtatious remarks from his female classmates and somewhat grudging respect from the male ones.

Apparently acting like he doesn't give a care about much of anything, even living or dying is a turn on…except most people don't get it's not an act. He doesn't tell them that four weeks ago he didn't drink enough alcohol that he passed out because it was fun, but instead he did it because he was trying to forget and didn't really care about what the consequences would be. He keeps it to himself after a race on stolen air bikes , in which he emerges the very much battered victor that his insane death defying race to victory wasn't a result of giving it his all to win the race , but not giving a care whether it was his last race ever. He doesn't tell them that the hypos , pills and liquors he now regularly consumes aren't a result of him being the life of the party, he keeps silent because he knows it would be strange to say that he'd rather be the death at the party….curled up in a back room and finally released from his life.

After all if it's an accident then it really isn't taking his own life is it?

But right now he's fifteen and headed fast to nowhere. He wishes he could have seen what was about to happen and stopped it. But he had hadn't been able to say a word. It would have seemed weird, bizarre, abnormal for a fifteen year old male with supposedly raging hormones to push a beautiful and all too willing female away. So instead he pushed away the fear surging through his body at her touch of his thigh and walked away in a wake of wolf whistles and cat calls from his friends, after Cassie had let her intentions be all too clear. He let her hand tug him along to a somewhat secluded corner as he downed the last of the drink in his cup wishing the misnomer of liquid courage actually applied to the beverage scorching its way down his throat.

He was supposed to be enjoying the situation, and he felt it bizarre and sick for finding her body pressed against his and her slight frame grinding against him repulsive. He wanted to push her away, but he knew then he would be labelled.

Things might have changed in the 23rd century but some things among teenage boys never did. A boy who didn't get with a girl wasn't as stigmatized as he would have been years ago, but there was still comments made. It was high school and some things didn't change and who was hooking up with whomever would always be a topic of conversation. He didn't want the comments that would follow if he just pushed her away and left so he endured. After all what was wrong with him anyway that he wasn't finding her attention arousing. Maybe he did have something wrong with him; maybe what had happened on Tarsus had really screwed him up. Maybe somehow all that was his fault. He's refused to talk about it with the therapists and all the others but even though he doesn't—desperately doesn't want to— he remembers every moment.

Cassie whispers something in his ear and then her lips are dragging against his own, fleshy and warm, trying to force his mouth open. She pulls him closer, somehow she either ignores or doesn't notice how unwilling and stiff his body is. If she does she's probably chalking it up to him playing it cool, she'll never consider that maybe it's the opposite of how people would think. Maybe, he's hating every caressing touch and whispered word. Maybe he's the one who feels like he's being taken advantage of and just wishes he could race out without hearing "What a fag." in his ears.

He responds with trembling lips to her eager almost frantic kisses and tries to let himself go. He's gotten better at pretending to be normal. He's practiced what to say when people talk to him, how to walk in class and assembly without freaking out at the noise and excess stimuli, how to sleep without screaming out at the nightmares that still come every night, he's even practiced how to eat lunch without having to stop and puke as a stray memory of a gaunt face mixes with every bite, but what's happening now isn't something he's practiced.

Because how could he ever practice enough to forget another's body claiming his as their own—using him over and over for their own sick pleasures no matter how many times he begged, fought or pleaded for them to stop.

He feels like a freak for not feeling Cassie's soft hair against his cheek but instead dirty stubble from an unshaven face. He feels sick at not smelling the scent of her flower perfume but instead stale sweat, liquor and body odour. He nearly stops breathing as her slender frame is suddenly transformed into a heavy rough body pinning him against a wall.

He wishes he could like her like he's supposed to …after all he had liked what happened over a year ago before hadn't he? He's read that the body sometimes responds differently than the mind. He knows that some responses are involuntary and something he has no control over.

But it still feels wrong as he remembers screaming, crying, begging, his mind in torment as he body silently betrayed him by giving contrasting reactions to the stimuli.

His stomach is churning now, thick summersaults in his insides and creeping bile trailing up his throat. She's oblivious to his discomfort. Her hands are drifting lower. She's pulled off her own shirt. His belt is unbuckled and his jeans become unzipped, starting to sag . His shirt is pushed up, her nails gripping his bare back just above his waist and that's when he losses it.

"Get away." He starts to say except it to comes out as "g-g-g-get, 'way." The words are almost gibberish as he panics. The words may be almost indecipherable but his actions aren't as he pushes her back. His voice is to loud and people come closer . He can feel their eyes on him. Cassie looks hurt and confused a half formed question spills out. "But—we, I mean—I thought you—"

"N-n-no—" He swallows, and manages to gasp out over heaving breaths. "I don't—not—you—not now—I-I"

He stops too confused and panicked to continue. Whispers are starting as people watch, it's voyeurism of his anxiety filled rambling and actions. He knows the comments that will be coming next. If it was different circumstances and he was a different fifteen year old he might say similar things himself. After all there's only a few things to say about a teenage boy standing there in terrified horror, clutching his undone jeans in one hand looking like he's about to be sick at what almost happened as a very attractive girl stands opposite, confused and now angry by the refusal.

Kirk knows he should leave. His hands are trembling as he tries and fails to do his zipper up. Instead he gags and with one hand holding his jeans up he pushes past the crowd of teens watching the freak show that is him.

Everywhere he goes it feels like someone is watching him. He tries to make it to the front door so he can just leave. But the exit is blocked by a crowd of dancing teens who all are starting to stare at him. He knows his face is ghostly white and his stomach is twisting so much that any moment he going to lose it and disgrace himself even more by throwing up on the hardwood floors of whoever's house this is as people watch him and snicker. He'll be back to being the freak again.

Somebody touches him on the shoulder and he can't help but flinch back. Worried eyes seek his own. "Hey you okay?"

He almost can't speak but manages to shake his head and adds. "I don't feel so good."

Or at least that's what he thinks he says. He's sweating and the faces are flashing past too fast. His heart is thudding in his chest and a line of sweat drips down his face stinging his eyes. His hands are still trembling and now his whole body has joined in. The faces of the crowd are blurring and more like a grainy movie than reality, flashes of another time and place are starting to invade.

Past and present are intertwining and people are staring at him even as he tries to get away. He's moving without thinking, trying desperately to find an empty room, somewhere—anywhere , where people won't be witness to him falling apart in his own mind. He's digging his nails into his palm trying so hard to hold it back. He reaches a half deserted bathroom, the couple who has taken it over for a make out session leaves as he lurches in. Maybe it's because he looks like he's about to throw up. Maybe because they think he's high as a kite and having a bad trip. But mostly it's because his lips are moving in the half-forgotten now remembered words of a long ago conversation, and his eyes are half-crazed like a feral animal wanting to kill, wanting to destroy, wanting to die...

He slams the door behind himself and turns on the water. Then he sinks down his back pressed against the door and his breath coming so hard he feels like he's suffocating. He gives in...

_You want to tell me..._

_Please, just—just kill me...he's begging for his own death with parched blood-cracked lips. He wishes he could just die ...anything but what's about to happen._

_His wish isn't granted...it's never granted. He's only fourteen, naked, hurting and scared, trapped in a cell with a sadistic guard and no matter how many times he screams or cries or begs, it still happens. He wishes they would just beat him, burn him, whip him, the pain he can take. But what's about to happen next—this is something very different; it's something that breaks him in a way that nothing else could._

_He's flung against a wall even as he tries to escape. He bites down on the man's forearm and takes a savage pleasure when the guard has to slam his head against the wall to release the grip his teeth have made. _

_It's going to be worse this time because he's fighting, and this one doesn't like it when he fights. Some of the others do. Some find it funny...more enticing, but not the one pinning him now. Kirk bites his own lips until blood runs down his chin; he's trying to keep quiet, partly because every fibre of his body is screaming to just tell the man what he wants and partly because he wants to yell until his throat is hoarse from what's happening._

_Rough skin is moving against his own, a piece of a phaser holster digging into his bare hip. Grunting breaths blowing out foul breath against his hair and silent tears dripping down his cheeks. Hands caressing his body harshly front and back. Then it's over as suddenly as it started. He still hasn't told and he should feel some satisfaction but even that doesn't feel like a victory. Instead he feels numb as he hears a belt being buckled and his cell door slamming shut again. He doesn't feel anything; in fact the only thing he wishes is that somehow someway he could get clean. _

_But the grime of this encounter like all the others clings to him; he lets himself cry and the tear streaked paths are the only clean parts of his body...he feels so dirty._

He pulls himself upright, and tastes blood in his mouth. His bottom lip is shredded and only now does he realise that the metallic taste in his mouth wasn't only a memory. The memory still clings to him sullying him with every moment. He rakes his nails down his own skin, wishing he could just rip it off. The phantom feeling of rough hands dragging against his body is killing him.

He raises his eyes and spots the shower stall halfway across the room. Before he knows what he's done he has flicked on the water setting. He stands under the hot spray letting it burn his skin through his clothes. He grabs soap and strips and scrubs away until his skin is red and raw and still it isn't enough.

Tears start streaking down his face intermingled with rivulets of water and the scrub brush falls from his hands as he starts gagging which quickly turns into full blown heaving. He's crying and throwing up and screaming. Between the shower and the loud music he's mostly unheard. The water turns cold and eventually he's left ineffectually still retching but bringing up nothing but acid. Mucus and sour bile coat his throat and he feels like there's no more tears left in his body.

It's another few minutes before he manages to turn the water off and get back into his now sopping wet clothes. When he unlocks the door and walks out of the bathroom, a small crowd is gathered in front of the door and he can tell that his screams weren't all drowned out. He knows the picture he must make—eyes reddened, face blotchy, clothes dripping wet, and smelling faintly of sick.

He moves past the now frozen onlookers and walks down the stairs and out the house. Somebody calls his name, but he ignores them and continues on into the night.

XXXX XXXX

He gets home late , much later than he should be. His mother looks up from a data Padd she's reading as he walks by. By now his clothes have dried off. She doesn't fully glance up so she doesn't notice his face or his expression. He can tell she wants to lecture him on curfews but she breathes in and drops the remark before she speaks again. It's because she doesn't really know what to say...how can she lecture him that he shouldn't be out late at night when he was out alone in a lot more dangerous situations for months..._Riverside , Iowa can't be half as dangerous as a war zone._

Instead she asks. "How was the party?"

Kirk has to force himself to speak. The words sound rusty and false. "It was fine."

"Really?"

He doesn't answer, just nods and continues past to his room. He can't tell her what really happened; he's already decided to forget it. None of it was real if he refuses to remember it. Tomorrow he'll go to school like he's fine. They'll think he had a bad trip of drugs or something, eventually the rumours will die down. But he's not telling his mother, there's nothing she can do anyway.

At the kitchen table Winona finally raises her face completely; she brushes away the tears that have been falling on her data Padd since before she heard her son walk thru the door. Some kid told their parents what happened and the parent called her. They were talking about drug consumption and liquor, but she knows that not the real problem, at least not totally. She knows she should have pressed Jim farther, she knows something is very wrong and it's not just the nightmares or the scars she sees. Something's broken inside. She has a vague suspicion of what's caused it. But she can't bring herself to talk about it or accept it, and after all there's nothing she can do anyway...

And that hurt's the most.

* * *

_This story was written in part after thinking about all the male survivors of sexual assaults. One out of every ten sexual assaults is of a male. But in many cases they are the hidden quantity. There's a stigma to male sexual assault that in many cases far overreaches the perception of female sexual assaults. Males are often blamed for the crime almost as if they were willing accomplices. They reduced and belittled for not being man enough, or not being able to fight off their attacker or even that they somehow were acting in a way that brought it on. Even the healthcare community needs to recognize male SA survivors and offer them support. This problem is an issue that affects many of all nationalities ,occupations, socioeconomic background, and ethnicities._

_Thanks for reading ...until next time. _


	5. Left Behind

_Title: Left Behind_

* * *

_They'll always leave you_

_Or_

_You can leave them first_

It's been a theme throughout his life and no matter how hard he tries to change it, nothing changes.

_He's three perched on the edge of a chair staring at his mother. Her forehead is wrinkled as she reads a data Padd and makes notes. He's thinking about what he heard some of the other kids say about their dad...and he wants to know what happened to his. Why isn't he there to play with him or talk with him like the other kids say their fathers do. Sam just tells him to shut up when he asks and mom grows quiet but he really has to know..._

_"__What happened to my dad?"_

_His mother glances up, her head swinging upward and her eyebrows knitting together. "What?" She shifts a stack of data Padds on the table and glances away again._

_Jim asks again, more insistent this time. He wants an answer...he needs an answer. _

_His mother acts like she hasn't heard she stands and walks into the kitchen, rummaging through cabinets. Packages tumble off the shelf and wrappers crinkle. Her head re-emerges and she's wiping her face on a dishtowel like it's suddenly dirty. When she finally looks up her eyes are reddened and her voice is slightly muffled as she tries to smile and it looks like a sick grimace. "How about some cookies?."_

_Without waiting for an answer she pulls out a plate and with a shaking hand tips a whole package open crunchy disks fall out and scatter across the counter but Jim ignores the offering he's like a dog with a bone. He asks the question again and this time his mother falls completely still. Her lips are pressed together in a tight line and her eyes are growing bright. She takes a breath before speaking ._

_And delivers the words like a death pronouncement., "He went into space."_

_She breaks off...Jim waits, his curiosity silently demanding an answer. _

_ "__And he didn't come back." Then she's gone, disappearing from the kitchen but he can still hear her starting to sob in the living room. _

It'll be another year before he learns that not coming back means dead. And another year after that before he fully grasps the concept of death.

When he finally does it doesn't change his first opinion.

His dad left him too.

XXXX XXXX

He's six and scuffs his shoe along the floor. "But why do you have to go?"

His mother doesn't stop packing her bag. "I already told you Jimmy, I have business to take care of and I'm the only one close enough who can complete the assignment in time."

"Can't I come with you?" He asks even though he knows the answer will be the same as it's always been. He's right again. As she starts up the same excuses why he can't go, he tunes out. Instead he grabs her comm badge from where it's laying and hides it underneath the clothes she's already packed. It'll only delay her for a few minutes but at least she'll be with him longer.

He tries another option. "Can I go with Sam to the Marshalls' house? Why do I always get left here?"

"They invited him to stay over not you, plus you're six and he's nine."

He scuffs the floor harder with his shoe, this time leaving a smear of drying mud. "Can I stay down the road with Ms. Perkins?"

"She's not home half the time; you'd be alone in that house most of the day at least."

"So?"

"So you're not ready to stay by yourself."

He scowls but doesn't remind her that he'll be staying by himself when she leaves. He's already tried that in the past and she stolidly refuses to believe that her husband, Frank would leave a then five—now six year old home alone while he went out and drank with his friends.

A quick search commences as she discovers the lost comm badge. Jim rescues it from where he stashed it as she frantically moves stuff around her room looking for the device. "Here." He holds the silver equipment out and waits patiently as she goes through her routine of a one-armed hug for him before she grabs her bag and walks down the stairs toward the door. Franks gets a quick kiss and then his mother's gone. He stands at the door, irritated that Franks chooses to stand behind him and he can feel the man's warm liquor laced breath on the back of his head. But he's more irritated that his mother gets in the air skimmer and takes off without once ever looking back.

And he's even more irritated that she's leaving him again.

XXXX XXXX

He's eleven and Sam is walking away. His brother's last words ring in his ears._ You'll be fine._

But he knows he won't...and it's not just because now that Sam is gone Frank will start on him even worse. It's not that.

He's not going to be fine, because there's something wrong with him. After all what else could it be that makes everybody leave him?

His father's dead. His mother's off planet, in some star system light years away. And his brother is walking down the road planning on never coming back...And not once did any of them stop to think of who they were leaving behind...him.

Suddenly nothing matters. He drops the soapy sponge in the bucket and slips into his father's old car. If they really don't want him...maybe he'll just do them all a favour. Wind is blowing in his hair and music is blaring through the radio. And as he reaches the edge of the praecipe that will lead to a short tumble into the quarry and a quick death, he isn't sure what he wants...

But it's not that...

He tumbles from the car and gets up. He's shouting his name when the officer asks, because he doesn't care anymore.

The words are harsh and defiant as he squares his shoulders and faces the man.

Let them leave...let them all leave...he doesn't care.

XXXX XXXX

Except he does...

Thirteen years old and he finally knows what it's like to feel loved completely and sincerely. Not like a obligation to be begrudgingly filled or a chore to be completed. Instead he knows what it's like to have his hair affectionately tousled as he gets home from school and is met with a smile and a plate of cookies. Instead he knows what it's like to hear a voice raised in encouragement as he wins a race instead of hearing swearing deprecations about how he's a waste of time.

He should have known it wouldn't last...but he got complacent. He finally forgot and now he's reminded.

Twisted, broken, bloodied bodies. Faces he can't bear to see because he knew them when they were alive and vibrant. They're gone. He knows it wasn't their choice. He knows that of the tens and hundreds of bodies strewn around nobody would have chosen to die they way they did.

But still it feels like a betrayal, because they've left him too.

XXXX XXXX

He's nearly fourteen and he feels stupid. He should be used to what's happened now. Instead he stares almost dumbly at the small rag wrapped body waiting to be covered with a waiting mound of dirt. There's only a few of them left now...

One by one they keep going. Starvation, illness, weapon fire, dehydration...the list goes on and on. He doing his best to save them all, he's doing more than any teenager should have too...but still it's not good enough...and they're leaving him.

He drops the first scoop of dirt on the body and an unseen tear escapes down his cheek.

XXXX XXXX

He's sixteen and high as a kite. He's drunk too but that isn't what makes him slam the door shut to his house and run out. He has a few credits in his pocket, a hypo of the good stuff for when his current high wears off, a few odds and ends, and the clothes on his back.

He thinks about going back and apologizing. Or maybe packing some of his stuff up, but in the end he just keeps walking. He hasn't talked to his brother in a long time, or seen him either. His mother is once again off on her frequent assignments off planet. And he's left behind with his stepfather. He can't take a second more in that house or around that man, or he's going to kill him...

He's knows that because he wants to and that weapon in his hand had felt too right.

It's a long walk to the shuttle depot, but once he gets there he'll beg, borrow, steal...pretty much whatever's necessary to buy himself a ticket off planet. And then he's leaving.

He gives a half smile through a mouth tangy with blood from a split lip. He imagines the look on his mother's face when she comes home to find him gone. He wonders if Sam will ever try to contact him and realise his little brother has been years long gone.

It feels good to finally be the one leaving everybody else behind.

XXXX XXXX

He's seventeen, eighteen, nineteen, twenty, twenty-one... the years blur together sometimes. He's gotten good at being the one who does the leaving.

He's sixteen and in a drug den on Kalchek prime and the room is hazy with smoke. He wakes up feeling slightly sick and a whole lot high. His head is spinning as he takes a last hit off a half-filled hypo lying in the middle of the room and then walks out the door into the night before anybody can demand credits or anything else as payment for the night's festivities.

He's seventeen and it's a whorehouse, a house of ill-repute, whatever. The name doesn't matter. What does is that somehow—he can't even really remember all the details—he managed to get involved in the life. All he remembers is what was supposed to be a fling that went bad—really bad. At first he tried to get away but even that desire faded a little more with each day of his drug filled stupor. It's not really so bad he convinces himself and he's too high most of the time to care about anything except getting his next hit. Now he's lying tangled up with somebody's sweaty limbs, and this customer has been way to rough. Even lying still he can feel a few broken ribs, a lot of bruises and he's bleeding from at least one orifice. When the person—he isn't too sure of the gender—falls asleep he makes sure they stays that way—permanently. He grabs his clothes pulling them on as quickly as he can over his bruised body and then snatches a discarded wallet lying on the floor. It had a good wad of credits and a few coins from different planets... enough to meet his quota and still the jitters he feels starting. He stashes the wallet in his pocket and walks away.

He's nineteen and laser beams lance overhead and a few feet away he sees one of the other men fall. He's close enough that he might be able to reach him. The man's eyes lock with his own, and then Kirk moves. Not towards the man, he doesn't forget what the man's done and he'll be more than happy to let the disgusting creature meet his maker. Because after all the things he's seen the man do...to innocent people he can't begin to think of the mercenary as human.

He's twenty-two and back home in Iowa...Not even sure how he wound up there. But in any case he finds a bar and proceeds to commence his typical plan for the night. Get drunk...start a fight...get a girl...and leave... He doesn't really care about the order, but his plan is going nicely. Until some man in a Starfleet uniform ruins it. Suddenly he finds himself sitting at a table, with a dizzy feeling that threatens to be a concussion, a wad of blood-soaked tissue up each nostril and a lecture about how he could be better. He wants to punch the man, because who the hell does he think he is acting like he knows him. But something stops him, and the man seems a little too familiar. So instead of being the one who saunters insolently away mid conversation, Kirk finds himself watching as Christopher Pike walks away after delivering his speech like he was offering salvation.

XXXX XXXX

Kirk still isn't sure how the whole Starfleet thing happened. But as he stands in his cadet uniform he decides his decision must have been due to a concussion or maybe he was drunker than he realised, because he hates rules, and pompous officials. And Starfleet has quite a few of both. He's learned from an early age—thirteen in fact, that all they ever mean is death . They've got all the answers for hundreds of scenarios but nothing for the real-life ones that really matter.

But instead of leaving the first day out of orientation, he stays. At first he says it's because he has to beat Pike's dare. Then he says it so he can find the name of the pretty and delightfully elusive linguistic student. Later he says it's because, somebody has to keep the Georgia doctor he's nicknamed Bones from flunking.

He still can't admit that maybe he's finally tired of leaving...

He hangs around McCoy-that's the doctor's real name— every moment he can get. Kirk's like a shadow except he doesn't just stay behind and silent. Instead he's in front, , at the side, pretty much all around... and he's always saying something. Whether it's slightly lewd remarks about the cadets walking by in messhall or gasping refusals as he tries to dodge a hypo spray once he's managed to have his third allergic reaction of the month, he's not really silent.

He's constantly pestering the doctor, talking to him, being around him. It's like he's found one thing worthwhile about the whole academy and he's hanging onto it for dear life. He keeps pushing farther, being more annoying, almost clingy, he halfway insults the man, picks at him, tries to start a fight, does anything and everything he can to push him away...it's like a test he's determined to have the doctor fail. It's like something he has to prove to himself and then he can finally move on..._Everybody leaves. _

And Kirk just wants to get it over with.

Because he knows it'll never last. The feeling of belonging that he has marginally managed to achieve is nothing more than a facade. The few acquaintances that threaten to become friends are nothing more than more misery waiting to happen. Kirk knows something will happen to shatter the normalcy that has somehow crept into his life. He knows that once again he'll find himself alone and rather than wait for everything to come crashing down on his head he wants to destroy it himself.

Everything's going to well. He's the top of most of his classes and a close second in the others. He finally has a few people who apparently actually like him at least a little bit and many of the others give him a grudging respect. Finally he feels like he belongs and that scares him. He doesn't want to relax, he doesn't want to let his guard down , because it's all just an illusion.

_They always leaves..one way or another he's sure all of it will go away ...and he doesn't want to wait for the slow run towards the end. He wants to meet it on his own terms._

He flunks a few tests...not bad enough to actually damage his grade, but enough to push the limits. He wants his teachers to begin to doubt him, he wants them to show how they truly feel.

He's just an ass enough to several students that they stop hanging with him and as he watches them glance at him and look away he feels bizarrely satisfied that once again his expectations are becoming fulfilled. A few more flunked exams, lewd comments, picked fights and he's sure he was right. People want to get away from him or him to go away. In the span of a few days he manages to have at least five faculty members calling for his head and at least ten times that number of students severely pissed with him.

McCoy catches him at the end of a class he has deliberately made a fool of the teacher in and hisses "Are you trying to make everybody mad at you? You know that professor is head of the review board?"

Kirk just keeps walking and McCoy grabs his arm stopping him. "Seriously, they're going to expel you if you keep up this . How long do you think before it'll be before they kick you out for this cocky I—don't—give—a sh—routine ?"

He tries to pull away from McCoy without answering but the doctor is holding his arm tightly. So instead Kirk smirks and because he's trying hard to be an ass he answers. "Long enough to see them kick you out first." Then he laughs at the expression crossing the doctor's face and pulls his arm free from the suddenly loosened grip.

He feels better being the pariah. He feels better because at least then he knows what's coming next and he can plan for it.

_He'll walk away before they have a chance to leave him ._

A part of him knows he's being irrational, but a large part of him doesn't care...this is what he's chose and no matter whether he's hastening his own end it has to be on his own terms.

They're walking back to their dorms and McCoy is silently fuming. He's been that way for most of the week ever since Kirk made that comment about him being kicked out, and it has only increased as the days have progressed and Kirk's gone out of his way to piss off the doctor. And Kirk in a sick way is almost pleased with himself. They were partnered for classes today...which normally would have been okay. But this time Kirk purposefully volunteered for the shuttle flight, even though he knew McCoy was deathly afraid of shuttles, then he proceeded to fail the simulation. After said failure he defiantly ate food he was halfway sure he was allergic too, thereby forcing the doctor who was still really angry at him to save him from anaphylaxis.

Then Kirk decided to ignore McCoy's suggestions for him to rest and instead went out to a bar where he waited until he saw a woman his friend was clearly interested in. Five shots of liquor later, and a few flirty comments and he and the woman are coming out of the back room, with clothes dishevelled and a self-satisfied smirk on Kirk's face. Kirk ignores his McCoy's glare and pretends he doesn't care.

Inside it feels like his stomach is sinking. He's waiting for him to walk away; he's waiting for him to leave. He wants the doctor to just glare at him with disgust and walk away from him. Instead the man grabs him and drags him out the bar insisting that he go home because "Allergy medication and eight drinks do not mix well damn it!"

He doesn't bother to correct McCoy's count because it's a lot more than eight drinks but even he can't remember how many now. Kirk complies even though he's kind of confused and angry at why McCoy just won't leave. He wants to shake the doctor's hand off when he reaches out to steady him as he starts walking but he's too drunk to make it to his dorm on his own and McCoy begrudgingly helps him the rest of his way. He wants to tell him to piss off when McCoy starts grumpily scolding him, but he's sure it's not a great idea to open his mouth at that moment. He collapses on his bed facedown too tired to even undress. He really doesn't feel good and if he smothers in his sleep and chokes on his own vomit well then great at least he won't be alive to see McCoy walk away too.

He twists his head to where the doctor is standing over him and growling about responsibility and him being an ass. He doesn't really mean what he wants to say , but he has to say it because right now he hates McCoy. He hates pretty much everybody in the whole universe.

And he hates himself for once again forgetting that he's always going to be alone...because they always leave. The words fall out as he remembers his mom riding away in an air skimmer, or Sam with a bag hitched over his shoulder dragging his feet down the driveway, or the blood covered corpses of his family on Tarsus. He blurts the words out because it's what he wants to say to all of them."F—k you."

_F—k you for leaving, f—k you for leaving me and getting out when I couldn't._

McCoy just looks at him confusedly... Kirk turns away and falls asleep.

He shifts and wakes in the morning. He's covered with a blanket and doesn't remember grabbing it. Somebody has changed his clothes, he opens his eyes more and sees that the bed linen is fresh too. His head is pounding and his mouth tastes gross like puke.

He's confused for a bare moment, and then it all comes back and he stills. He's ready for it, but yet he isn't. He waits another minute trying to summon the energy to get up and pack his bags and just walk away again. Because who was he to think that he had finally found a place to belong, who was he to think that he had finally found someone who wasn't going to just up and leave him.

_There's something wrong with him,, that's why they always leave. It's better to push them away then watch them go _Those are all the thoughts going through his head.

Then he hears a snore.

He turns his head and finds McCoy fast asleep in a chair with his head pillowed on his arms. And for a moment all he can do is stare. Then he calls out "Bones?"

The man starts , then turns his head and blinks a few times before saying. "Oh you're awake."

He sounds irritated and still a tad angry.

"Why are you here?" Kirk can't help asking, he was expecting him gone...he wanted him gone. Then he had a reason to leave himself.

McCoy scowls and stretches before answering. "Well, you should be grateful somebody cares enough about you to take pity on your idiotic ass. Do you know how many people have died of aspiration of their stomach contents? It's..."

Kirk tunes all the rest out and sits up. He's still staring at McCoy watching the doctor grow increasingly impassioned as he lists puke related deaths from Jimmi Hendrix to the 22nd century Terran general Clarence Garrovick

The doctor finishes. "So no I wasn't leaving you."

The rest of the conversation fades away and Kirk is left with only the last few words...he's still confused but before he can think more about what the doctor has said McCoy is leaning closer and asking a question.

The doctor has that nosy, prying look that Kirk has come to associate with awkward questions that he doesn't know how to answer and doesn't really want to. "What's going on with you this week? You're acting like you... I don't know...want to get kicked out or something."

He stands up and ignores the doctor. He doesn't want to talk about what's going on. He's sure the man wouldn't understand. McCoy hasn't lived his life. It's late and classes will be starting in an hour. Kirk snatches up a uniform shirt and replaces his T-shirt.

McCoy is still prying, his voice boring into Kirk and it's doing nothing for the headache he has. Finally he snaps. Kirk's eyes are wild as he snarls. "You want to know what's wrong? You really want to know?"

He stabs a finger into his own chest and answers. " I don't fit in here and sooner or later everybody is going to realise I'm just the Iowa screw-up with a dead hero father who I can't be like. I don't belong here!"

He knows he should stop but he can't now that he's started. "People are just tolerating me, and when they realise what I am they're just going to walk away. So I'm not going to give them that chance. F—k this...I'm gone."

McCoy just stares at him, silently. The doctor's gaze is unwavering and Kirk turns away and starts randomly grabbing clothes stuffing them into a bag.

"You really think this?" It's not such so much a question as a statement. Because in that moment McCoy realises something that he's sure even Kirk hasn't. Underneath all the cocky bravado and I-don't-care brilliance is a person who's insecure as hell...And he wants to know what's the reasons but something else tells him that he desperately doesn't want to. Before he can decide, Kirk turns back to him.

Venom is dripping off the other man's voice as he speaks. He gives a self-deprecating laugh that sounds half-deranged. "I don't think I know. From the time I was born, when I was a kid in Iowa, when I was thirteen on T—" He breaks off for a moment and when he starts back his words are the story of a foregone conclusion. "People always leave..."

There's something more to all this and McCoy makes a mental note to find out. But right now he has to figure out what to say because Kirk's turned back and is continuing to pack, shoving items almost violently into his bag. He speaks so low that McCoy almost misses his last words. "So I leave first."

"You mean you give up." Those words weren't what he meant to say but as Kirk turns back to him with eyes blazing he knows it's the right thing.

"What did you just say?"

"I said you give up." McCoy is slightly apprehensive at the look crossing his friend's face but he continues. "You making some god damn excuse about why you have to leave but there really isn't one. I don't know what else you're talking about, but the only person walking away right now is you. You're so afraid you might actually succeed that you're leaving before you get the chance to."

"That's not what this is about." Kirk's voice is shaking with anger and some other indefinable emotion.

"Then what is it about Jim?"

Kirk doesn't answer, he just stands still, a shirt still clutched in one hand and his face blank except for eyes...

"You can't keep running from everything."

"I'm not—"

"'You are. You've got what it takes to make it in Starfleet, hell you definitely got it more than me." McCoy clears his troat and adds a touch of joking to his voice. "If you don't belong , then I sure as sh—don't but I'm a divorced, ex-alcoholic older than most of these cadets— doctor who hates space... And yet I'm still here."

Kirk swallows an looks like he wants to say something but isn't sure what. McCoy glances at the time , and stands up. "Astro nav starts in fifteen minutes , I'm not giving an extra assignment because you want to have a god-damn pity party."

The scowl Kirk gives him isn't quite up to par, but he finishes dressing and leaves the half packed bag sitting on his bed as they start off to class.

They're nearly there when Kirk says almost so low that McCoy can't hear it. "Thanks, Bones."

"No problem, you can be sure I won't be letting your clingy ass walk away any time soon , somebody has to be around to save you when you decide to try chocolate covered strawberries again for the tenth time because a _cute _ cadet offered them to you and maybe you aren't allergic anymore "

And as they walk into class Kirk hears the unsaid promise..._I'm not leaving you too._

Kirk doesn't quite know if he should believe him, and three years later when the doctor is given a posting on the Enterprise and Kirk is about to be left Earth side he already knows what to expect. And it's not like he really blames the doctor, after all he has assignment and Kirk's predicament is his own fault. But still a small part of him that he'll never admit to can't help hurting as he watches McCoy start to leave. It's not until the doctor turns back and helps him sneak aboard a shuttle bound for the ship that he finally starts to realise that maybe leaving on your own or being left behind once they get tired of you aren't the only options.

Maybe he doesn't have to be alone...

* * *

_Not really sure if this fits in the after Tarsus collection...parts did of the story and parts didn't. If you really think this story doesn't fit in this collection then feel free to tell me._

_Anyway, this one is kind of a character study. I see Kirk has having issues with abandonment and difficulty having friendships or relationships because he's always on guard and always wanting to avoid being hurt._

_We can kind of see that in the movie when Gaila tells him she loves him and he responds by remarking "weird"._

_Sorry for the length of this piece! And if any of you would like me to write on a specific aspect of After Tarsus I do accept prompts!_

_Oh and by the way, I was rereading my fic and noticed that if you were looking at this with slash goggles it might appear to be implied, but that wasn't my intention and I definitely don't ship McKirk_

_Thanks for reading...until next time._


	6. Pathways of Pain and Pleasure

Title: Pathways of Pain and Pleasure

* * *

_The pathways of pain and pleasure are almost identical..._

_A few different impulses, a change in chemicals and agony becomes almost unbearable pleasure. Mix them long enough and they become nearly indistinguishable. _

_He's read that in some book long ago...and he knows it's truth. He's just not sure exactly when the signals became irreparably crossed in his own mind._

It starts somewhere around the time when's he's just a baby. And even though he can't remember it, the pattern is already being set for an entire lifetime to come. Winona is still torn apart with grief. It hasn't even been a year since her husband has died and yet it feels like an eternity.

She's returned back to a farmhouse that George had bought with the idea that one day they would live there together once he got an Earth side posting. Now instead of a house filled with laughter, every minute spent in the aging farmhouse is like a protracted prison stent.

The walls are closing in on her, sleep is an elusive goal and when it comes the nightmares are their soon after. She's got a three year old Sam—she'll never call him George again, because that was his father's name—who's a handful by himself and a baby, Jimmy, who she can barely stand to look at.

Sam has spilled milk on the floor and now while she's bent over washing away the mess Jimmy has started crying. Over the past months she's fed him, washed him, bathed him, but it's all been a chore. He's gotten the necessities that he needs for life taken care of but she can't bear to give him what she considers an added luxury of affection.

_It feels so wrong to love the thing that killed her husband_...and she knows that's an irrational thought, but that still doesn't stop her from thinking it.

Sam has wisely gone outside to play sensing the sleep circles underneath her eyes and the thin line of her mouth aren't going to end well for him if he stays near. So like a dog who knows that its master is mad and it's going to bear the brunt of that fury he drifts away silently.

Jimmy has none of the three years old instincts, his cries grow louder more insistent, the noise drives through Winona's head like a spike.

"Damn it!" the cry hesitates for just a moment at the yell but then starts up again worse than ever. Winona moves into the room snatching the baby—her son from his crib. Her actions are crisp, perfunctory—his diaper is clean—he's just ate—he's not too hot or cold—he has no reason for yelling and yet he still does.

Over and over a keening sound that just won't stop. It's louder and louder until she can't take it anymore and something snaps. "Shut up! Shut up you little brat." She slaps his face leaving a red mark on a small pale cheek and then she snatches him up shaking his body. "Shut up! Haven't you caused enough trouble, haven't you done enough!" She repeats the words over and over and the crying stops, just as suddenly as it started.

What she's about to say dies on her lips and as small slightly dazed eyes stare back, at her she finally realises what she's done. Her son—their son—her and George's child she's shaken, screamed at, slapped like he was some animal...like she hated him.

His tiny face is still reddened from crying and what she's done. Tears start falling down her cheeks and for the first time in months picks him up and holds him. She clutching him to her chest tightly as tears wet his blanket and she's whispering apologies that he can't understand in his ears.

It's later that night, when Sam is asleep and Jimmy is nestled in her lap suckling drowsily that she makes a promises to herself to never lose control like that again. She makes a promise to treat her little Jimmy like she knows she should—after all he's one of the last things she has of George.

Yet it's barely a day before she breaks the promise. She's never as harsh as she was that first time, but it's small slaps when he cries or pinches, it's raised voices until he finally stops crying...and after each and every time she finds herself trying to offer amends. He's cuddled up in her arms for hours, or she picks him up and tickles him over and over until he giggles.

It's all mixed up she loves him some days, she hates him others, most days it's both and her baby Jimmy grows and thrives because while he can feel the hate pouring off her in waves some times...he also somehow feels loved too.

XXXX XXXX

He's five and his Stepfather Frank is very hard to please. Still he tries his best, because the man is supposed to be his dad, and he's never had one so he really doesn't know what a dad's supposed to be like. He doesn't know that a dad isn't supposed to punch him in the stomach and tell him to man up if he cries. He doesn't know a dad isn't supposed to slam him against the wall if he's too slow, or too fast, or too quiet or too loud...or just for nothing most times. He doesn't know that a dad isn't supposed to be someone who's never pleased with him for anything he does because somehow it's always wrong. Sam tells him Frank isn't their real dad and he's just a drunk but Jim has to feel needed and at least the man pays more attention to him then their mother who's barely home.

He convinces himself it doesn't matter when Frank tells him to fetch a six pack and he drops one of the bottles resulting in a stream of swearwords directed his way, because he'll do better next time and Frank will pop a cap off a bottle and as he's taking a swig remarks "You're not as useless as you look." And sure the comment could be an insult but it's better than nobody noticing him at all.

He convinces himself that it doesn't matter because sometimes after he finishes waxes down his stepfather's air skimmer for the fifth time that day maybe just maybe the man will give a grunt as he stares at the overly shiny metal...and Jim can convince himself that the sound is one of appreciation and not a careless noise from a drunken man.

Then he's learning to swim and Frank has ostentatiously volunteered to teach him. Jim is just a little nervous but a whole lot excited, he sneaks half glances at his stepfather as they row out in a old fashioned boat with a cooler of beer propped near the rudder. He turns around to ask his stepfather when they'll go swimming and feels even more apprehensive at the smirk that crosses the man's face. "Right now boy." That's all he hears before he's unceremoniously toppled in the lake. He goes down, then comes up, and then goes down again. Water gushes into his mouth and nose and he scrabbles for purchase again water that gives way beneath his hands. Just as he is about to pass out, he finds himself lying on the bottom of the boat puking up murky water as a amused Frank chortles in the background. "Don't you have any instincts? They say even a baby can doggy paddle." When Jim finally manages to sit up, he's mad but as they row back to shore and go home he doesn't mention any of what happened to his mother because while he may have half-drowned he convinces himself that wasn't really Franks' intention and at least somebody spent some time with him.

XXXX XXXX

When he first meets he isn't sure what to think. She's beautiful but she has a somewhat arrogant way of acting. She tells him her names Lenore and her father is really important and someday he'll be one of the most important people in the whole galaxy. He doesn't believe her, but when he meets much later he has no doubts. Her father is one of the most important people and... one of the evilest.

He's thirteen almost fourteen and locked up in a jail cell, waiting to die. It's been days and days until he can't even be sure of the exact time. The cell door slides back in a rasp and he immediately pulls himself up trying to ready himself for what's coming next, but instead of a guard , a girl—almost a young woman enters.

He's confused and slightly ashamed, he's naked and filthy, covered in waste—some of it his own and the girl's eyes are all taking of all of it in. She seems familiar but it isn't until she speaks that he knows who she is. Her voice trembles. "J.T? "

He swallows and nods, he knows her father and has suffered at his hands and watched others die for the man's ideas of what's right but he can't imagine the girl standing in front of him having anything to do with it. ..or at least he doesn't want to. She gives him water to wash, most of which he drinks because it feels like days since any moisture has passed his lips. Then she cleans his cuts and bruises as best she can, there's food too. He wanders how she can be there and asks about ways to escape and she quickly dispels his plans citing increased security and telling him how she wishes he would just tell her father what he wants to know so he can live.

There's something wrong about how she is able to sneak into his cell without being seen supposedly, and how she allows seems to steer the conversation to the others or how the guards conveniently never interrupt them but he convinces himself that it's just a coincidence, because he needs something to hold on to...and because she claims to love him and ...he thinks maybe he loves her too. The visit aren't just food, water and the basics, it's something more too. She kisses him, holds him, she brings pleasure even though half the time his body is still drawn with pain from the guards who visit before and after her. It progresses from kisses to something more and he knows that she real because why else would she give so much of herself if it wasn't true...

Except none of it's real...he finds that out when Kodos visits him along with Lenore and says regretfully. "You really are something James... even with Lenore's affections you still held firm...but she's still served a purpose... after all to truly feel pain you must have known the contrast of pleasure..."

Lenore gives him a kiss on the lips that tastes like acid, and a regretful smile like a serpent's glare and her fingers trail does his front giving his body a squeeze that sends conflicting messages flying through his mind. He's still trying to sort it all but when the first wave of agony hits and for a moment their both there...pain and pleasure.

XXXX XXXX

He's sixteen and locked in the only toilet cubicle of some cheap shuttle. He thought he could wait until they reached their destination but the craving was too strong. So with sweaty palms and a slightly unsteady gait he navigated past the knowing gazes of some of the passengers and drifted towards the back of the shuttle toward a place where he could satisfy the overwhelming urge. Now he's trying with fumbling fingers to slot a cartridge into the hypo that he can't seem to hold steady. His face is dripping with sweat and he feels vaguely nauseous. Somebody's knocking on the door and he shouts at them to "Piss off" and he fumbles the cartridge and it clatters to the floor.

In his mind he's cursing himself for even thinking of the silly notion that he could stop cold turkey. He finally gets the hypo set up and presses the cold metal to his arm. The drug races through his system making his veins feel like they're on fire and he can't help the small cry that falls from his lips at the sensation, but in the same breath the last sound turns to a moan as just as abruptly a sensation of complete ecstasy ripples through. He relaxes back as the drug takes hold...it's just like he remembers an almost mind numbingly rush of pain before pleasure so intense that he wants nothing else...both sensations he's used too and both he somehow craves.

XXXX XXXX

He's seventeen and lying on filthy sheets in the back room of some club. Around him several others are sprawled in varying shades of undress and several others are getting dressed again after enjoying in who they paid for.

He's still riding the waves of pleasure from the chemicals circulating in his body and what he's just partaken in with the person who's dropping credits and drifting back into the main club. He's sore and battered but he knows it'll be a few more "customers" before he'll be allowed to call it a night. As the time wears on any pleasure he feel lessens and the pain increases in his aching and abused body even with the drugs clouding his senses and judgement. Its early morning before he collapses on to the pile of dirty threadbare blankets that serve as his bed.

His body is overwrought with the endorphins from it all, drugs, sex, alcohol, pain and he can't begin to distinguish what he's really feeling.

XXXX XXXX

He's in his twenty's and in Starfleet academy when he meets anther command track student named Janice Lester. She's pretty and bright and something about her intrigues him. She doesn't take any nonsense, kind of like the linguistic student he knows Uhura...and yet somehow Janice is entirely different.

She takes charge of the relationship, subtly at first. It starts with her teasing him then grows more forceful. When they spend time together she dictates what they do and where maximising pleasure for herself and caring little about him. He convinces himself it's a refreshing change.

His friends are subject to her scrutiny too. McCoy is just a divorced alcoholic, he's not fit as a friend for somebody who's going to be a captain, she declares after meeting the doctor. Kirk finds himself making excuses not to spend time with him to appease Janice. He ignores and even gets angry when the doctor suggest that their something wrong with Janice telling him who he should associate with and what he should do every moment of his day.

She pushes him to be more aggressive, tells him it's weak when he pauses in the middle of a training simulation to help a cadet with a badly broken leg. "That was stupid Jim, our team could have won if not for your dumbass." The words sting but the slap she delivers after her proclamation hurts more. During a ethics scenario in which he's the leader she insists that he sacrifice over half a shuttle of people because it's the tactical thing to do...he doesn't follow her advice and pays for it later with a slightly lower grade and Janice's yelling deprecations in his ears...He doesn't tell her that he almost did what she said...He doesn't want to think about the changes he feels happening to himself with every moment he spends with her.

Janice grows more and more forceful—he refuses to say abusive—because that has a connotation he doesn't want to ever consider. After all if she's abusive then that implies he's a victim and he never wants to be a victim again...He has to prove to himself he's in control even if he's not.

And in between it all Janice has her high points. Sometimes she congratulates him after a test, or catches him randomly after class for a spontaneous make out session. She tells him she loves him and makes him repeat it back to her. And he tries to convince himself as he says the words that it's true.

McCoy still tries to nag him but he pushes the doctor away and meanwhile Janice hits even greater highs and lower lows. She actually punches him hard enough that he has a black eye after he is top of the class in a rescue mission ahead of her. "They only gave it to you because you're a man." Is the exact words she says and then follows up with another blow when he tries to appease/congratulate her at getting second place. Later she apologises in her own way as they spend a whole day tangled together in her dorm room.

She throws a tantrum and nearly skewers his hand with a butter knife in the messhall after finding out that she hasn't got her first pick for a cadet cruise. Somehow that's his fault too. But later she drops by and they watch Holos the entire weekend.

It's up and down, until it's almost constant. They fight almost every day and make up afterwards and each time is more intense, it's punches and kicks , screaming, fighting, kisses, making out each as extreme as the other. Janice is like a deranged animal and Kirk still can't break it off. She hates him and yet she loves him and he hates her and loves her. Each day is pain and pleasure and that's what he's used too.

He's bruised and battered and still coming back for more. It only stops when she finally snaps. She's once again been passed over for an internship she's applied multiple times for, one of the reasons she's denied is erratic behaviour but that comment falls on deaf ear. Kirk is reading a data padd when she bursts into his dorm room. Her eyes are wild and she points an accusing finger at him.

"You—it's all our fault."

Apprehensively Kirk puts the padd down. But Janice isn't finished. "I work so hard and all the rest of you get everything, you know why it's because you're men! This whole fleet is misogynistic!"

Kirk stands up about to speak but she's suddenly on him pummelling him with fists that aren't that small. "I hate you. I hate all of you. You want to rip me apart and destroy me? We'll try...go ahead you won't succeed."

Kirk tries to pull her away but she's strong and enraged and makes up for any size differences by sheer fury. She lashes out breaking his nose, bruising and breaking ribs. Her nails scratch his face and throughout it all Kirk doesn't fight back, he's only trying to restrain her and all the while he doesn't really find anything wrong with what's going on...it's became normal...it has been for years really...long before Janice. She finally gets enough leverage and by this time she too far to even considers what she's doing. They both topple down and she straddles his chest. Her eyes are fever bright as she smiles and bars her teeth. "You, all of you stand in my way and only when you're gone can I actually win."

Then her fingers are gripping his throat trying to strangle him and he's too startled to do anything at first. As his breath slows, instinct kicks in and overrides any other impulses. He's years in the past when he flips her off. She's fighting and kicking and biting, but he pins her down this time. Her clothes are half ripped off and he straddles her. One hand is holding her arms pinned above her head and the other is grabbing her throat. Her uniform skirt has flown up and her top is flung open exposing her chest.

She grins up at him almost lewdly, "Like what you see you pig? All you mean have one thing on your mind." She wriggles underneath him arching her body against his , her words are throaty and seductive "It's so easy to control you." And at that moment his fingers tighten cutting off her breathing and he wants to watch he suffocate and at that same time he wants to do something that has nothing to do with death but will have her moaning just the same.

It's all confused but before she's even lost more than a few seconds of air he's off her and backing up against the wall. His voice is hoarse from his own bruised throat as he stammers. "It's over, God damn it it's over."

Janice picks herself up, this time she's all tears, her mood has changed so quickly it's like the mindless anger was never there. "Jim, what do you mean, I love you. We just had an argument."

But Kirk's already backing towards the door, he shakes his head. "It's over."

And he means it, because they're something about her and them that he realises isn't healthy. He loves her, hates her and ultimately he realises there's something wrong when agony and enjoyment become intertwined.

XXXX XXXX

He thinks he's finally broke the habit when he becomes Captain. He'll be seated in the command chair, sometimes just watching his crew or feeling the ship's imperceptible movement as it warps towards their destination and the pleasure he feels is almost too much for words. He finally feels right, like maybe this is how he's supposed to feel. There's no pain, or confusion...and he thinks maybe a pattern is broken...maybe he's finally figured out how to actual feel good...without the added contrast that agony brings.

But he hasn't...

It's a week since he woke up—that's what he prefers to think of coming back from death as. His body is still wracked in pain and sore from head to toe as Khan's miracle blood travels through his system repairing half-dead tissues.

Kirk opens his eyes from a fretful sleep and instead of a clean white wall ahead or an irascible McCoy jamming hyposprays in his neck, he finds his entire crew of senior officers gathered at his bedside. He can tell by their expressions they've been waiting for him to wake up.

Maybe they came to see him before but those times he can't remember. Uhura's crying and Sulu and Chekov are grinning. Spock has his typical stoic face but Kirk can see past the Vulcan facade to see his first officer's relief. McCoy is covering his own happiness with gruff threats about visiting time being cut short if they don't quiet down and Scotty is eagerly detailing the new fittings on the Enterprise.

Kirk just watches it all, not speaking much but drinking in the interactions. People care, they actually care about him and it's startling and makes him feel apprehensive and happy at the same time. He sits up straighter fighting back the fatigue tugging at his limbs and the pain flaring up as the seconds grow.

McCoy notices the grimace that crosses Kirk's face as he shifts again. "Here let me give you this." The doctor interrupts the chatter and reaches over to administer a hypo of pain medication. Kirk shrugs the doctor's hand away and McCoy reluctantly allows Kirk to retreat after a few moments.

The visit continues and the pain grows even as Kirk's own sense of contentment increases. Throbbing aches course through his body and as Kirk smiles and tries to ride out the waves of pain he wonders why he doesn't just take the damn hypo like McCoy wants...it's not because he doesn't want the medication, or is worried it makes him drowsy.

The reason for his own recalcitrance hits him like a self-discovery that he'd rather never acknowledged..._the only way for him to truly feel pleasure is with pain._

* * *

_Thanks for reading... I started this story after thinking about how Kirk was in the first movie being beat up and he seemed to love it. And then all the other unhealthy instances in his life that had led up to and would come after that point presented themselves. A reader of this series mentioned Janice Lester and was I planning on writing her and here it is. Hope you liked it. Dysfunctional and so tangled up and confusing. It's interesting how Kirk in the vignette was being abused and basically a victim of domestic violence but still managed to convince himself that he's in control of it._

_Until next time..._


	7. Just Lose It

_Title: Just Lose it_

_Summary: Kirk is a rake, a man-whore, lover of many...famous for his exploits, but the reasons for his uninhibited behavior go a lot more deeper than most people realize._

* * *

It's just a body, it's just his body. That's what he tries to think as he moves in time with the woman writhing under him. She's starting to gasp, tiny breathes of air puff out warm and sweet against his bare chest. He nearly makes it but before they can go all the way he moves off her pulling his shirt back on, tugging his pants up, and buckling his belt. He can't even begin to make an excuse so he just runs.

He feels sick as he backs out the room. What's wrong with him? Shouldn't he like this?

He finds a bar, flashes a fake ident code, and sets out to get drunk. A man or woman, he isn't sure of the gender or even if the alien has a specific one winks at him and the next few minutes pass in a drunken blur until he's kissing cool lips in a hazy back hall, he's a little better at it this time...

But he still backs away as the kissing turns into caresses and the caresses began to turn into something else.

Over the next few weeks the faces blur as he moves from person to person, getting a little better each time. Until finally months later he's sprawled on the floor in a drugged out hazed with four people around him whose faces he can't even remember. It's dark but even so, he can see by their state of undress and his own that he's finally broken the barrier. He knows even if he can't remember it all.

And a part of him revolts at what he's done. But it's not like he's a virgin, he hasn't been that way since he was thirteen and a kid on Tarsus (unless you count Frank's "punishments" and he really doesn't want to think about Frank or what he did.) His own body had been one of the first _and_ last things taken from him but just as surely as all the other things he's lost, he lost that too. Now, he convinces himself it doesn't matter as he stands and pulls on clothes that are tacky with others' body fluids. He convinces himself that he doesn't care about the half-remembered memories of what he did hours...or was it moments before.

He wanted to enjoy it.

He wanted to feel good.

He wants to convince himself that he wanted it.

And he wants to gag. Instead, he moves out the room, only vaguely surprised to see drugged up people humans and aliens, passed out in the halls. It's supposed to be an overnight school field trip and he knows his mother would be horrified if she knew where he was or what he's done, but a large part of him doesn't care. She's always horrified with him. He's still wobbly from the drugs he's taken and the hypo marks itch along his arms just as the bite marks now turning to bruises hurt on his neck and shoulders.

He gets back to the hostel they're staying at and even though it's late at night the other teens are still up. An impromptu party has started, sips of some sure to be alcoholic beverage are going around and music is booming in the air.

Someone notices him, "Where were you?"

"Out" He doesn't bother to elaborate.. They're not supposed to be out after dark but the chaperone on the trip has left for the night after extracting a promise from her charges that they would behave themselves... She knows their words are false just as they know she's skipped off to be with her boyfriend instead of watching them like she's supposed to.

"Doing what?

Kirk gives a sick grin and let's that and his next words say it all. "More like who."

He lets the comment linger, behind him he can hear the snickers and comments of the other boys in the group. The vulgar words behind him grow loud as they in obnoxious detail begin guessing what happened. Somebody passes him in the hall and gives him a high five, but Kirk doesn't really feel like celebrating.

He's not sure exactly what he feels.

Kirk goes upstairs and showers desperately scrubbing his skin to try and feel clean. When he comes out one of his classmates is waiting for him. He knows her, the rumours of what she does are legendary, supposedly there isn't any boy in the upper grades who she isn't intimately familiar with ...she's grinning at him now and as he walks by gives him a wink and then a pinch. She's slightly drunk and he's still a whole lot high and together that's ton more inhibition than either of them need.

He knows what's next and plays long, and after it's over...he feels confused and used. A small part of him is riding an adrenaline high, but the other just feels dirty. Kirk convinces himself that it doesn't matter. He should like it so he does at least that's why he tries to think.

XXXX XXXX

He gets a reputation, Kirk... the man whore, the stud, the Casanova... Anywhere anytime he's ready and willing. He laughs when people say as much but inside...he's not laughing.

Casey Wilchert late afternoon in the history classroom.

Morgan Fuller behind the gym.

Liri Ul somewhere neither of them can remember.

Each time it gets a little better and a little worse. Months later he no longer feels a guard's sweaty body against his own, or wants to break the fingers of the person gripping his skin and moaning, but instead he feels a loss of himself.

Being with another person gives him a purpose, and makes him feel needed, wanted, loved. But he knows there something wrong with going to a different body every night. He knows there something wrong when he doesn't give a care who the person is anymore and just cares that the action is just one of the few things in his repertoire that makes him lost enough to forget.

Over the years he feels more slutty than any prostitute ever could and still he keeps going, night after night person after person, species, gender, even age (as long as their legal) not being held into account. Every person he meets he can't help flirting with and more often than not, the flirting goes farther...he's out of control and yet he can't stop. And it's not something he even wants to do anymore it's just something that he needs. Like a way to blot everything that happened out by overwriting each event, multiple times.

XXXX XXXX

He's sixteen and the galaxy is definitely not forgiving. She's some older woman at a bar, and she likes him...he's half drunk already and thinks maybe he could like her too.

Next thing he knows, it's all a lie and he's waking up to something he never wants to remember but can't help...because it's the same story only a little different each and every day after that. It's like being back on Tarsus again...doing anything for food...or being back in that cell again with sadistic guards...but the people who keep him and the others are better marginally...maybe...at least he's too high to care...

Except when's he's not.

_The hands are cold and hot at the same time, like fire and he just wants them to stop touching him..._

_Fifty credits this time, not sure if it's Orion or Regellian or whatever but it'll never be enough ...not for this..._

_Warm lips on his, sweat on his skin, musk in his nose and the acidity of bile in his mouth..._

He likes it better, when he's drugged...then it doesn't hurt so much.

XXXX XXXX

He gets out, and things go back to being the same...except they are even more screwed up...he's even more screwed up.

He just won't admit it.

He has to be okay, nothing's changed and each new conquest is like an affirmation to him that he's okay.

He's not.

He's not okay.

Waking up to a warm bed with someone he barely knows hurts him just as much as waking up alone. In fact it probably hurts more. Holding somebody in his arms that he barely knows is just as bad as sleeping up with nothing but nightmares for company.

As long as he acts like everything is okay then maybe...just maybe it finally can be. He finds the technique and perfects it until it's a honed weapon. Something he can use to fight the memories plaguing him. He knows how to seduce but close the door to other expectations. . He knows how to charm but not form an attachment. He knows how to be a lover and not be loved.

It's easier that way...when it's just a body and he's just a body. Everything's mechanical and he can pretend that he's having a lot more fun then he actually is.

It's what people expect ...everybody wants something and so he gives himself.

After all he's not worth much anyway.

XXXX XXXX

It's seven years later and he's twenty two. They've been in the bar for at least four hours. McCoy has complained and almost sulkily sat in a corner nursing his second drink and Kirk's gone through at least five times that number of drinks and half that amount of people. He finally saunters back to his friend with a grin on his face and a slight swagger to his gait. He winks at the blond in the short dress as he passes her and gives her betazoid friend another appreciative once over because he can. He's feeling good as he sits down at the table and says to McCoy, "we can go now."

"Oh, really? You've finally decided you've had enough?"

"I can never have enough Bones, but best to leave them wanting more and...it's getting late there's classes early tomorrow.."

"Like you care about class..."

Bones isn't in a good mood, he's had a total of two classes involving a shuttle flight earlier that day and is still decidedly angry at Kirk for not only continually pestering him during said shuttle flights but then having the nerve after class to drag him out to yet another club when they both should be studying but Kirk is feeling too good to let it bother him. He winks at his friend as they both stand and starts walking toward the door. "There's a certain language student there and I just might—"

He's cut off by McCoy—who really isn't in a good mood—" I think Uhura has better sense than to go out with you, class slut and stuck up language major don't sound like a good pair to anyone with a brain." Kirk freezes for just a half second as the word slut hits him like a slap in the face. He remembers the same phrase whispered into his ears , years ago. _"You're just a little slut aren't you boy? That's why you're not telling isn't it? You look forward to this." _?He shivers at the phantom fingers trailing down his spine.

McCoy's half joking, half serious, but either way not intending to be mean...mostly. McCoy continues oblivious to Kirk's reaction as his friend catches himself and follows the doctor into the night. "What's that five more on your tally tonight? Twenty total this week? Grand total of 100 this year? I'd really love to know what got you started on this whole anybody anywhere anytime thing" He continues his steady litany of increasingly more biting comments. "Your fucking horny ass is enough to give a Orion brothel a run for its money."

The Orion Brothel comment causes Kirk to flinch, but McCoy continues ranting oblivious.

The doctor's in a really bad mood. It starts raining outside and McCoy swears as fat raindrops crash down around them. Kirk's gone quiet and pale. He's used to being called a rake, a Casanova, even a man whore, but the way McCoy's phrased it hits him in a way the comments never have before. Suddenly all the face he can remember and bodies of those who faces he can't start to flash through his mind. Times where he was a willing participant and those in which he later convinced himself that he was (because then at least he wasn't a victim) flash through his mind. He feels sick at the thought of what he's done...because somewhere along the road he crossed the line too much and lost himself.

McCoy finally realizes something is off as Kirk continues walking alongside him, but entirely too quiet. He half turns then stops as he catches sight of his friend's face. Kirk tries to continue walking, but McCoy grabs his shoulder stopping him.

"What's wrong Jim."

"Nothing." He starts to walk past again but the doctor isn't moving.

"You're not replying with one of your asshole remarks and you look like shit right about now, so something is wrong."

"Nothing—" Kirk tries to lie again, but McCoy isn't having it finally he blurts out, because he knows McCoy will believe it about him, after all that's what he's known for overindulging..."I might have drank too much."

The doctor accepts the admittance, because even though he's seen his friend's alcohol tolerance, he also has seen how many drinks he consumed tonight.

They make it back to the dorm, and Kirk endures the skimmer ride there, growing quieter and paler by the minute as he's revisited by memories he thought he had long forgotten.

They start to go their separate ways and McCoy hitches his bag up on his shoulder and rolls his eyes to Kirk's comment of "see you later Bones, get some sleep." And McCoy counters with his own remark of, it's bitchy and angry and McCoy gets like that when's he's pissed. Kirk knows it, in fact he's joked more than a few times in the past that his friend sometimes sounds like an old woman. But this time the words hurt...a lot. "Yeah, whatever. What don't you try to get back to your dorm room without stopping for a lay with somebody else."

Kirk forces himself to smile in his classic-devil may care way , but inside he's feeling really sick. McCoy shakes his head as he starts to turn away, but he isn't finished yet. "God damn it if I didn't know better I'd say you had a past life as a hooker."

And that's the stone that breaks the dam he's been trying to hold back. He can't even remember the faces of the people back at the bar. All he can remember is sweaty skin, hot breath, a twist of limbs, and warm flesh pressed against his own but it's still five bodies too many. Any pleasure he might have felt is overshadowed by the memory of what he's done, what happened to him, and how he's never spoken a word to tell anybody. His skin suddenly feels hot and sweaty, his stomach is twisting and everything seems really, really, loud.

McCoy is already turning away when he hears a retch behind him and finds Kirk doubled over throwing up, rather violently. Like he's suddenly so sickened by something and can't keep it in anymore.

McCoy waits until the retching has subsided into weak gasps and then drags his friend up. He's complaining the entire time he supports him back to his dorm room and lets him sleep on the couch with a rubbish bin nearby.

Kirk finally falls asleep still being lectured on the dangerousness of alcohol poisoning, the importance of personal responsibility, and not abusing the privilege of having a doctor as a friend. When he wakes up he lets McCoy ply him with hangover remedies and let's a really bad headache be the excuse for why he's running to the bathroom to throw up for half the day or so pale and flinching at noises...it's easier than admitting the truth.

But he's not sick from all the booze he drank, he wishes he was because that would be easier to handle. Instead it's his mind that is tormenting him. From drugs, drinks, sex it's all just a mechanism to forget and somewhere along the way he didn't quite succeed. He just glossed it over, now it's back and he has numerous encounters layered upon what happened like rickety scaffolding around a dammed building.

It's all collapsing now.

He hasn't loss the guilt when he was nine, ten, eleven and waiting for Frank to punish him in only the sick twisted way that bastard could. He hasn't loss the disgust at being so hungry that anything...and everything was reasonable. He hasn't loss that fear from when he was thirteen and cowering in a cell waiting to be killed or worse. He hasn't loss the shame at being unable to fend off the guards who were bigger and stronger than him...and yet somehow he should have been able to protect himself. He hasn't even lost the terror at being in another's arms and feeling their body against his.

Instead the only thing he's lost in the encounters with numerous people he's indulged in over the years...is himself.

* * *

_Thanks for reading!_

_I've had this one on my hardrive for awhile and was a little hesitant to post it...for many reasons. I see Kirk differently than a lot of people. TOS Kirk may have had many loves because that was in his personality, but he also formed relationships with many of them. I think AOS Kirk would have just as many or more sexual entanglements but without the romance component. I think AOS Kirk uses sex and being with another person as more of a coping mechanism. In the first movie Gaila mentions that she loves him and he looks startled as says "weird". That to me implies that he wasn't expecting love or companionship and was there for the physical aspect (and of course to get the codes from Gaila). One can argue that he said weird because he had only started a relationship with Gaila for his own selfish ends, but I think overall it's more than that. Kirk isn't used to being loved or feeling love...he's looking for a quick fix and doesn't know or want to know anything else._

Lastly, I hope you enjoyed the


	8. I Can't Hate Myself More Than I Do

_Title: I Can't Hate Myself More Than I Do (But I'll Try)_

_Set Directly after Just Lose it_

* * *

McCoy realises that something is off when Kirk wakes up in the morning. He's definitely hung-over and that comes with the usual side-effects, but this time it's more than just a hangover. Kirk is steadily avoiding his eyes, and except for the times he dives to the bathroom sounding like he's retching up his stomach lining he's silent.

Something's wrong and McCoy knows it. Morning classes come and go and Kirk still hasn't spoken except for the bare minimum. A half-hearted answer that was surprisingly wrong in response to a question by a professor... a few words during the discussion in their Xenopolitics Fundamentals...brief encounters and then he retreats back into himself.

It's not right and it's not Kirk.

McCoy confronts him outside their last class before lunch. "What's going on?"

"Nothing, I'm fine."

If McCoy didn't know him he might believe the quick way he says it but McCoy can read Kirk and the words have just the right amount of leave –me—alone and please—just—shut—up hidden in them.

"Bullshit."

"Really, I'm good , don't worry."

"If good looks like you Jim then what the hell does bad look like?" McCoy snorts.

Kirk's sickly pale and looks anything but good, McCoy reaches out to touch him intending to pull him closer and do another quick exam...after all it wouldn't be the first time Kirk got a concussion and insisted on walking around like he was okay when he obviously wasn't.

Kirk pulls back—flinches back— if McCoy's honest with himself and then other man's breathing quickens. "It's fine Bones." He seems to read McCoy's mind. "I don't have a concussion or anything like that...just a bad headache."

McCoy snorts. "Last time I let you diagnose yourself kid, you wanted me to believe you "just had a cut" when you had an open fracture. So I'm not going to—" McCoy reaches out to grab Kirk as one hand fumbles in his pocket for a mini medscanner. As soon as McCoy's hand touches Kirk's shoulder he goes stiff, involuntarily pulling away. The remaining blood in Kirk's face seems to have drained away and all of a sudden he looks like a frightened child.

McCoy's sees his throat bob, once, twice, then he makes a gulping sound and brings a hand to his mouth. "Bathroom's over their Jim." McCoy sighs nodding toward the door that a few steps away to his left. Kirk's already moving and disappears inside. McCoy's left standing in the corridor, students walking past. He replays the last few hours in his head. Kirk flinching when he's touched, not speaking, not looking at anybody.

He may not be a genius but he's smart enough know that Kirk isn't acting like a headache is the only thing that's bothering him. McCoy pushes open the bathroom door to find Kirk hasn't even managed to make it to a stall. He's bent over a sink, mostly dry heaving and looking like crap. Some guy is finishing up at a urinal and comes over to wash his hands.

McCoy recognises him as Finnegan, one of Kirk's erstwhile rivals who seemed from day one to have taking issue with him. Finnegan isn't sympathetic. "Out late again? Get what you deserve, can't wait until they kick your entitled party boy ass out back to where you belong."

McCoy bristles at the comment, but Kirk manages to gasp out past heaves. "Fuck you."

Finnegan laughs and slaps Kirk on the shoulder in a way that he could only get away with because Kirk was too busy being sick to retaliate. "I'm not the one hacking up a lung. Can't handle your liquor? Looks like you're the one who got fucked Jimmy boy." Finnegan walks past McCoy and flashes him a grin. "See you Doc, go take care of your boyfriend."

McCoy wants to say a whole lot more but instead he settles for "Just get out, asshole."

Finnegan leaves still laughing and McCoy's left with Kirk who is mostly done being sick. He's coughing and his arms are trembling as he supports himself over the sink. Finally, he wipes away the strings of saliva and bile dangling from his lips and straightens up.

McCoy shifts uncertainly and then blurts out. "You feel a little better?" then immediately regrets it. Kirk has got to be feeling worse he looks like hell, and obviously feels like it, plus this has got to be at least the fifth times he's thrown up that day and his stomach muscles have to be killing him.

It's pure crap but Kirk says it anyway. "Yeah, I'm good."

McCoy sees right through that statement but settles for running a furtive scan on Kirk. It's easy because his friend walks ahead keeping just out of arms reach... the few time McCoy gets closer he starts to walk faster or moves to the side. If McCoy wasn't watching closely he might think it was an accident as it is he knows it's not... Kirk doesn't want to be touched but McCoy doesn't know why.

They arrive at the messhall and not unexpectedly Kirk takes sips of soda and pushes his small pile of food (that McCoy forced him to get) across his plate.

A few engineering students join them at the table...and then a medical student McCoy recognises from there medicinal botany class comes over too...with Gaila innocently trailing behind. McCoy knows it's no coincidence the Orion woman chooses to sit at their table. She's been none too subtle in her attempts to get Kirk to sleep with her and surprisingly Gaila is the one woman who even though she's offering freely and multiple times a day he never takes up. It's weird but McCoy's always assumed even Kirk must have had some limits and Gaila would certainly push anybody's limits.

Predictably, Gaila settles next to Kirk and McCoy watches the exchange that starts.

"Hi, Jim."

"Hey."

"Last class I really had some trouble with the vector calculations and I was wondering would you mind explaining them to me...The professor said if I was having trouble I should get a tutor and since you have some of the highest grades ...well I thought." Gaila takes Kirk silence for agreement and tugs out a Padd. Kirk takes the Padd but then stares at it blankly for a few moments before pulling up some page and explaining. His voice is hoarse and he looks increasingly uncomfortable as Gaila feigns rapt attention while moving closer and closer to Kirk. Her hands are drifting lower and lower too and McCoy knows from sitting next to her too many times where they're going...Gaila really has no boundaries.

Normally this Kirk would be uncomfortable and might make some joke or scoot away but this time as Gaila leans in close and kisses his cheek "Thanks Jim, I really get it now." As she says "get it" her hands drift even lower and McCoy's pretty sure he knows where they are. He's about to intervene because Jim obviously isn't enjoying her attention but he's not saying anything either, when Kirk stands up dropping the Padd on the table with a heavy clatter and bolting out the messhall.

A few people are staring now, and Gaila is looking disappointed as always and stares wistfully at where Kirk has disappeared from the messhall. McCoy leaves to find Kirk and it takes a moment before he spots him, half hidden in an alcove. He's sitting on a bench head hanging down in his hands and heavy breaths shuddering through him.

McCoy sits opposite and Kirk jerks, his eyes flicking upward panic in them for just a moment until he sees who it is.

"What are you doing?"

The next words are muffled, and a poor attempt at being snide. "Trying not to throw up."

"Headache's that bad kid?" Kirk gives a barely perceptible nod and McCoy's already prepping a hypo of one of the few medications Kirk can take, it's only a mild one to take the edge off but it's better than nothing. McCoy continues conversationally. "Sounds like you might have a migraine." Kirk shrugs and McCoy delivers the hypo, letting the medication hiss into Kirk's blood stream before he continues. "But a migraines not the only thing going on with you."

Kirk still doesn't speak, instead he carefully straightens up as the medication starts to take effect. "Thanks Bones." He already starting to stand up and says the last words like a quick dismissal. " I feel a lot better."

"Damn it Jim, what's going on with you?" McCoy grabs his arm keeping him from standing, and is rewarded with Kirk visibly pulling away for a second or two before he forces himself to relax. "You're pale as a ghost and look like you've seen one, you're not looking me or anyone in the face, every time someone gets near you flinch and—"

"It's noth—"

"Shut up, don't tell me one fucking word if it isn't true...don't even speak if you're just going to lie. "

Kirk glances up at that for the first time meeting McCoy's eyes. He holds his gaze for just a second before turning to stare at his feet but in that second McCoy's see the dark rings around his eyes , the fear and...shame... that are hidden there.

Before McCoy can ask, Kirk starts to tell him. His voice is low and no matter how much McCoy tries to catch his eye he's looking anywhere else but at his friend. "Last night you said..." Kirk stops and then tries again. "After we left the bar , you told me ..." Abruptly he breaks off, and stares at his hands.

Minutes pass and finally McCoy's who's been wracking his mind for what he might be talking about asks "I told you what Jim?"

Kirk turns to look at him then. His eyes are shuttered, and his face is closed off. "Nothing...it's not important."

"If you took it so seriously it's pretty important, so I think—"

"It's none of your fucking business."

McCoy's surprised by the vitriol but he counters. "Jim, just tell me what is it."

Kirk stares at him for a moment like he's about to tell and then he takes a deep breath and raises his voice. "Fuck this, I don't have to tell you one goddamn thing...I never told anybody and I don't have to tell you."

Then he's gone and McCoy doesn't try to follow after. He reads the anger in his footsteps, the set of his shoulders, and the tightness of his jaw and by now knows Kirk well enough to know when it will be best for them both if he doesn't push...at least not right then.

Instead he sits back and tries to think about what he said that past night that would have wrought such a change. He had a beer or two and so his memory is a little hazy...but it was after he left the bar. He remembers being pissed, first at being dragged out to go drinking, then being ditched while Kirk had numerous assignations with people just the barest hint away from strangers.

He said some stuff last night...nothing more vitriolic than their usual insults...that is until he starts thinking back. He remembers the slut comment and the look on Kirk's face. He had thought at first it was indignation, now he looks back and sees the disgust in his own friends eyes...disgust at himself. The memory of what he said about an Orion Brothel makes him cringe especially as he remembers how Kirk was silent through it all but he looked sick...an expression he had until now attributed to the number of drinks he consumed.

And finally he remembers how pale and just...wrong Kirk looked as he wished him good night and McCoy feels sick at what he said back.

"Yeah, whatever. What don't you try to get back to your dorm room without stopping for a lay with somebody else. God damn it if I didn't know better I'd say you had a past life as a hooker."

And then Kirk had got sick and he taken him back to his dorm room and berated him for drinking so much. Yeah...I'm a great friend . McCoy thinks sarcastically.

There's something about what he said...something that caused Kirk to act the way he is now and he's got an idea...numerous ideas of what it could be... Either way he knows Kirk's never going to confess to him...

McCoy stands up a plan already forming. A sober Kirk would take a secret to his grave...but drunk...well let's just say McCoy didn't know he's friend so well because he was such a sharing individual normally.

XXXX XXXX

Kirk avoids McCoy for most of the day. He can't tell him, he doesn't want to see the look on his face if he knows what happened to him...what he did. He doesn't want Bones to be as disgusted and ashamed of him as he is with himself. McCoy's hard to avoid though and by the end of the day, he's finally cornered him in the messhall.

Kirk isn't feeling like eating, but he wasn't feeling like going to class that day either...some things just need to be done. He takes a few sips of soup and then pushes his tray away. Even those scant mouthfuls are pushing it, the soup's threatening to make a reappearance on the floor. He burps unexpectedly grateful when that's all that happens and closes his eyes willing his stomach calm.

"You busy tonight?"

Kirk jerks his eyes open as McCoy settles into the seat opposite him. He knows that the comment is just an opener to an interrogation and he doesn't want to be bothered. Instead of answering, he takes another spoonful of his dinner, which he really doesn't want just so he'll have something to do.

McCoy seems as unfazed as always and Kirk mentally braces himself for the barrage of concern and questions that will soon start. He blinks in surprise as McCoy says instead. "You up for a drink?"

Kirk frowns totally confused, part of him is suspicious wondering at how out of character it is for McCoy to offer a person still recovering from a bender more liquor. The other part of him is gratefully grasping the opportunity to do anything that doesn't involve spilling the secret he really doesn't want to tell and reliving the memories he really doesn't want to relive.

McCoy's sees the look on Kirk's face and continues before his plan can become too obvious. He knows he's caught his friend off guard and with only a twinge of guilt proceeds to make use of it. "We got two big exams coming up and I haven't studied for any of them. I was thinking tonight..."

Kirk really doesn't want to do anything but go back to his dorm room, and maybe sleep...maybe just lie in the dark. "I'm kind of tired Bones."

McCoy can read it in his face that it's more than just tiredness it's a ploy to get away and he's not allowing it...So he pulls the guilt trip allowing his indignant southern tones to deepen to their characteristic gruff annoyance. "Yeah, of course you're tired. You spent half last night drinking your liver into an early grave and didn't care that some of us actually wanted to study because maybe we all can't be geniuses...That Astro-nav course is required if I fail then..."

He trails off and Kirk predictably looks uncomfortable, knowing that McCoy had wanted to study and he had insisted that they go out for drinks yesterday instead. "Yeah, okay I'll come."

XXXX XXXX

McCoy's sets out a almost full bottle of whiskey and two glasses. He's not messing around. Beer would be a good sight cheaper, but he doesn't want Jim drunk; he wants him completely wasted. It's messed up that that's what it takes for Jim to talk and it's messed up that McCoy has seen Kirk drunk enough to know that but that's how things are. There are some things Kirk would never have told sober and whatever is bothering him is one of those things.

He unpacks the medical bag he's prepared and stashes the contents in his desk drawer. He's brought a few hypos on anti-emetics, and analgesics as well as some vitamin boosters ( the few medications that Kirk can actually take), for afterwards, because two massive hangovers one on top of the other is going to be awful the next day...Good thing it'll at least be the weekend.

XXXX XXXX

Kirk arrives to find McCoy already reading something on a Padd, a glass of whisky in his hand and a mostly full bottle on the table in front of him. McCoy glances up, and nods towards the stack of pads. "Figured we could study the warp equations first and then get into the more advanced stuff."

"Yeah, sure." Kirk slips into the dorm, noting that McCoy's dorm-mate is as usual absent and probably will be for the better part (if not all) of the night.

"You want some?" McCoy gestures toward the bottle of whiskey, but Kirk makes no move to take it. He's weighing what's going on...McCoy's acting too calm, and Kirk's sure he's planning something...but then again the doctor is obviously planning on getting drunk ad only does that when he's really stressed...So whatever he's planning is probably not tonight. Maybe this is his way for apologizing for probing him incessantly for information earlier.

"Yeah sure." Kirk grabs the bottle and pours himself a generous helping. He takes a sip and then a larger gulp. The whiskey feels good burning down his throat to settle in his stomach, as it hits him, briefly remembers that he's eaten almost nothing that day and knows that he'll regret that in the morning after he's had another glass or two. However, for now it's all good. His headache is easing up again and he feels a little lighter.

"What's the fundamental theorem that Warp Theory is based on?" McCoy asks looking up from a data Padd.

Kirk answers and then pours himself another glass...

Minutes pass trading answers and Kirk drinking more and more.

He doesn't notice that McCoy has drank one and a half glasses at most and is nursing his second drink with only a sip here or there. It might knock another person on his or her ass but McCoy's drank a lot more in his time, plus he's got to stay sober enough that he can talk to Kirk once he's pliable enough.

Except that might not have worked. Kirk turns to him, his eyes unfocused and face starting to get flushed... He's had about five drinks in quick succession and that's mostly without any encouragement from McCoy. The doctor considers stopping him as he reaches for the bottle again, his hands unsteady this time. He has a pretty high tolerance but five glasses in the span of a little over a half an hour are enough to hit anybody like a ton of bricks. McCoy does some quick calculating in his head trying to figure out blood alcohols levels and risk for alcohol poisoning and is interrupted by Kirk saying. " Are you trying to get me drunk?"

He asks the question while pouring another glass of whiskey slopping it from the bottle in an untidy stream. His voice is slurred and McCoy sees him staring like he doesn't really care about the answer.

McCoy's wants to outright lie but he can't bring himself to. Instead he settles for the half truth. "Nope, kid I'm trying to get us both drunk." It's not exactly a lie McCoy's pretty sure after he hears whatever Kirk's going to tell him he'll be glad of a few shots of whiskey to take the sting out but he does feel just a little bad for taking advantage of Kirk's trust in him.

"Oh...okay." Kirk picks up his glass sloshing a little whiskey out as he drains the glass in one long gulp.

That's six.

McCoy lets him pour another one though under normal circumstances he would have long since at least attempted to stop him, instead he watches as he takes a few swallows from his new glass before setting it down. He's definitely drunk now, and hopefully enough so that he's not going to be able to help talking.

McCoy takes a sip from his own glass trying to figure out how best to say it..."Jim"

"Yeah?"

"What did I say yesterday that bothered you?"

Kirk turns to him and smirks, looking pretty silly with a drunken lopsided grin on his face. "The same stuff you always do...you're fucking annoying you know that." He takes another swallow of his drink and adds. "But I like you anyway Bones."

McCoy can't help but smile slightly at the candour that Kirk somehow only is capable of displaying when he's uninhibited. Then he says. "What exactly was it though?"

"Was what?" Kirk asks like he's genuinely puzzled...and maybe he is. He's definitely not firing on old cylinders right now.

"You know ,I said something and then you got a weird look on your face and all of today you've been acting off." Kirk is silent as McCoy continues. "Something upset you."

"It's nothing." Kirk instantly says, but McCoy notices the way he drinks the rest of his glass in one harsh gulp.

McCoy let's him pour half a glass before snatching the bottle back from his unsteady hands. "Bones!" McCoy ignores the irritated shout, it would carry more weight if half Kirk's words weren't trending toward slurred incoherency. McCoy knows what he has to do so he pushes. "We left the bar and then I joked about you being a slut and the look that crossed your face..."

Kirk freezes as McCoy speaks, his eyes are somewhere else not quite meeting McCoy's but not avoiding them either. McCoy hesitates but when no answer is forthcoming, he continues. "Then I made a joke about the people you slept with and an Orion Brothel and—"

Kirk's really looking weird now, the glass in his hand is shaking and he's met McCoy's eyes but McCoy has found that he can't bear to stare into Kirk's.

They're hurt, like a visceral pain shining outward, plus their shame, embarrassment, disgust and a bunch of other emotions McCoy doesn't want to identify. He quickly finishes, feeling awful as he repeats what he said last night, and watches as the colour drains from Kirks face. He makes a strangled sound and drains the last of the liquor in his glass. His hand is trembling so hard some of the liquid slops down his chin.

"Jim?"

Kirk stares at him still not speaking and when he finally does his voice is slurred and cracking. "I'm not telling you."

McCoy can hear the fractured resolve in the tone and knows if he pushes Kirk will break... He drains the last of his glass and takes a deep breath. It feels wrong to be complicit to breaking him more than he's already broken...but then again this is the only way he'll ever find a way to build him back up. "Okay, don't tell me now, don't tell me tomorrow. But I'm not stopping asking you until you say what it is. It's eating you up inside."

He swallows sharply, then looks back up and McCoy can see his eyes are dampening. McCoy can barely hear him as he whispers. "You're going to hate me when you know."

McCoy would tell him how that's not true, but he knows Kirk can't and won't believe him.

His voice is just above a whisper and he staring at the ground when he starts. "Things weren't so great back at home...but when my brother left it got a lot worse. Frank—liked to punish me and—" He breaks off and digs his fingernails hard enough into his palm that McCoy sees small the small crescent indentations left behind slowly fill with blood.

McCoy wants to believe that the punishments were something physical even though that's not really any better than what he knows Kirk is implying.

Kirk takes a deep shuddering breath and his voice strengths a little. "I went to live with family for a while...off planet. It was okay and then stuff started going bad...really bad... I didn't want to...But we were hungry and I was just a kid...and then later I had too for the others...If I did it then the younger kids wouldn't have to ...and..." He trails off and laces his fingers together popping he knuckle joints so loud it sounds like gunshots in the confines of the room.

McCoy wants to break in and ask where this had happened. This was the 23rd century, things like what Kirk was describing didn't happen in the civilized universe...except apparently it still did.

It's silent for a moment and then he starts again. "You ever had to do something cause it was the only way?" McCoy nods but Kirk's already adding. " Well that's what it was like...we...we were just kids –just kids Bones and I couldn't let them die could I?"

Kirk continues on before McCoy can answer "and then when I got caught, I couldn't tell what they wanted so they—the guards—they—" He breaks off and rubs his wrists working the skin until it's bright pink. He's swallowing more now, thick sharp gulps, before he speaks. "My mom took me back home eventually, but I couldn't stay there...and when I left home I was still really screwed up., but there was this woman...and she ...well...Humans especially young humans are a treat in some parts of the galaxy... Aliens will buy us up to...to..."

McCoy fills bile fill his mouth and swallows it down sharply. He wants to not believe what he's hearing but the lie he longs to hear drowns in the truth of what he can't help but believe.

"I was already on some pretty heavy stuff back then, but what they gave me and the rest of us...you couldn't have stopped if you wanted too and after the first few hits nobody wanted to stop anyway...it wasn't—wasn't so bad you know...I didn't like it but it wasn't so bad, they didn't force me...sometimes..."

He stops dragging his nails across the back of his hands until reddish rivulets run from the furrows he's dug in his own skin. He shaking too and his voice is so unsteady as he finishes. "I got out eventually, but after that...after it all..." He looked up and met McCoy's eyes. "If it's my choice then what does it matter...if it makes me feel good then it's okay."

He asks the last part like a desperate question and McCoy is sure that he already knows the answers. Because he may have agreed, in most cases now he may even initiate what happens. But consent because it's your choice is very different from consent because you were never given a choice and you don't know the difference now.

There's a sharp contrast between choosing to be promiscuous and feeling like that's what you have to be.

McCoy feels sick himself as he watches Kirk trembling with tears running down his face. He suddenly looks much younger than his twenty years, much like the child he must have been when his innocence was taken.

There's something about Kirk that makes every protective instinct he ever had kick into overdrive and that's something only Joanna had ever managed to do. All he can see now is the little boy behind the grown man and unbidden his mind imagines how he would feel if his little girl had been the one in Kirk's position. The images are too much. He lurches up and manages to reach the tiny dorm bathroom before his dinner and possibly lunch makes a reappearance.

He gets back moments later to find Kirk still sitting where he left him. His face is bone-white and he appears so exhausted. His voice is hoarse as he looks up and practically begs. "Please don't make me say anymore. Please." He's got tears dripping into his shirt and McCoy can feel his own eyes smarting with unshed tears. He expected something bad, but nothing like this. Part of him wants to know the details, wants to know how old he was, and what happened exactly so he can take down whatever sick fucks allowed it to occur. However, Kirk's plea still rings in his ears.

So instead, he drains a newly poured glass of liquor and says. "Okay Jim."

Kirk looks away and mumbles "You hate me now, think I'm disgusting...wish I never told you." He gives a laugh that dies out to quickly and silently to be real. "I really am a slut...probably deserved what I got...Like Frank used to say."

McCoy stiffens at that, he wants to stand up and shatter stuff just because he's angry, he wants to drink until he's drunk enough to forget what he just heard and forget the images that he can't get from his mind now. But doing that won't help Kirk...McCoy doesn't exactly what he can do that will.

Nobody deserved what had happened to him.

Kirk stands up, he's unsteady and he knocks into the table knocking over the half-full bottle of liquor that's open. "Shit, sorry I'll clean it. I—" He swipes a hand across his face brushing away tears and then turns back to face McCoy.

He's wary now and still pale as a ghost but McCoy can see by the set of his shoulders that he's trying to pull it together. "Look I'll leave you alone from now on...just...just...please don't tell anybody what I told you." He continues on his eyes bloodshot and wild and his voice slurred. "I know you don't owe me anything but please...I can't have everybody know how fucked up I am—I can't have everybody know that—that—". He breaks off, a weird expression crossing his face and that's all the warning McCoy gets before at least a cup or two of sour booze and stomach acid splash down to decorate the throw rug and now forgotten data Padds.

"Sorry—I'm—sorry" He's still apologizing even as he continues to retch into the garbage bin McCoy quickly snatched up. "I'll leave in a—" The words are lost in another heave and it's a few minutes before Kirk manages to stop.

When he does he's still apologizing, apologies, pleas being endlessly repeated and tears and snot running down his face.

McCoy grabs his arm keeping him in place as he tries to stand. Kirk flinches at the touch but McCoy doesn't let go, instead he tightens his fingers.

He can't fix what happened in the past but he can try to fix what's happened now. "Jim...Jim"

It takes the second time for Kirk to look up, McCoy holds his gaze as he speaks putting as much conviction as possible behind his words. "That was stupid what I said. And I didn't mean it then, and I sure as hell don't mean it now. I don't hate you...I don't think you're disgusting or whatever self-deprecating crap you want me to believe. "

McCoy stops but then feels there's something else he needs to say. "Nobody deserves what happened to you." He swallows and licks his lips before adding. "You don't deserve what happened to you."

Kirk stares at him for a few more minutes and then his face wets with more silent tears. McCoy pretends not to see them as he grabs the hypos he stashed away earlier and cleans the self-inflicted cuts to Kirk's palms and the back of his hands. Fifteen minutes later Kirk's on the couch half way between sleeping and waking. "Bones?"

"Yeah?"

It's the sleepy, drunken question of a miserable person. "If I didn't deserve it then why didn't anybody stop it?"

And McCoy doesn't have the answer.

He wants to find Winona and wring her neck. He wants whoever that slave trader was and the clients, guards whoever else to rot in hell. He wants to say something that will make everything better...but life doesn't work that way. Instead, he says the only thing he can. And it's a promise he intends to keep. Kirk is halfway asleep and he probably won't remember it all in the morning but McCoy hopes he remembers this. He rest a hand on Kirk's shoulder and gives a slight squeeze. "I don't know Jim, but nothing's going to happen to you again. You at least got me kid...and I'm not letting anything happen to you."

* * *

_Thanks for reading. This story technically doesn't fit in the series but I don't have many options for formatting on this site. This fic is actually a sequel to Just Lose it, not a part of the series After Tarsus. If you wish to see this series and all my other works in their actual form as intended complete with tags and such check me out on AO3. I post there before posting here, sometimes weeks or months earlier._


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